


The Kids Ain't Alright

by hersilentlanguage



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Avengers Family, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bully Flash Thompson, Bullying, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Irondad, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Light Action, M/M, No Smut, No Starker in this house, Peter Parker has ADHD, Peter-centric, Swearing, Team Cap-friendly, Tony Stark acting as Peter Parker’s parental figure, among other sub-plots, and eventual Flash redemption, but this is not a love story, eventual whump, low-key Civil War fix-it, pre-IW/Endgame (Thanos doesn't go here)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20672621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hersilentlanguage/pseuds/hersilentlanguage
Summary: NOTE:This fic is on an indefinite hiatus. Right now, I'm not sure if I'll return to it or not, but given that the plot was largely "slice of life," you can still enjoy a good deal of fluff and humour without an ultimate conclusion. At some point, I may try to reframe these chapters as oneshots; however, it's not currently my priority. Sorry about that! I hope you'll choose to enjoy what's here, all the same.“No one bothers me, Mr. Stark. I’mSpider-man.”“Uh-huh,” said Tony. “No one, huh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever happened to that little sh—ell…fish.” Peter frowned in confusion, and Tony cleared his throat before continuing: “Y’know, that punk you’ve mentioned before. Cash? Stache? Dachshund?”“Oh, uh—you mean Flash.” A shadow fell over Peter’s face as he said the name. “Yeah, um, that was... way back.” He looked away, fidgeting with the stem of the apple in his hand. “Guess I didn’t tell you. He went abroad with his parents, like, forever ago.”





	1. How To Be a Heartbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is a prologue, set roughly two years before this story’s primary timeline.** In the scenes below, Peter is in middle school (8th grade). This is the same year he got the spider bite (although that happened months back), but he hasn't met the Avengers yet. I'm altering canon as needed, so for long-term context: it should be assumed that Tony recruited Peter for the battle in Germany very shortly after this (that won't be shown, since the next chapter will skip ahead two years).
> 
> Peter and Flash are the central characters in this chapter, with a few stock characters appearing strictly to assist the narrative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings_: swearing, homophobic language/behaviour, narration of anxiety and panic attacks, implications of underage drinking, minor reference to underage drug use, and brief non-explicit romantic interactions between consenting minors.
> 
> (There will be nothing graphic or explicit in this story.)

**PROLOGUE**

“How long’s it been? I’m getting claustrophobic.”

Peter sighed. “Um, about 40 seconds, I think.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, it really hasn’t been that—”

“Check your watch.”

Another sigh, and then the faint green glow of a cracked LED screen cast a dim, eerie light over Peter’s disgruntled expression. “You’re right,” he said drily, looking up from the watch face. “It’s been 36 hours, at least.”

Flash growled from where he sat tucked with his knees to his chest in the opposite corner of the closet. “Let me see that,” he demanded, reaching forward to seize Peter’s wrist.

“Ow,” Peter deadpanned. He was, more than anything, just annoyed by the odd angle at which Flash was twisting his limb to study the watch. “Y’know,” he griped, “it won’t make time go faster by you staring at it, man. Lemme go.”

Flash released him with a huff. “I can’t believe they put me up to this.”

“What do you mean?” asked Peter. He tilted his head, unseen in the darkness. The watch face had faded to black again.

“It’s nothing,” Flash replied immediately. “Don’t ask.”

Peter opened his mouth to apologize, but Flash cut him off in the same instant, like he’d just been waiting to allow any syllable of response as a courtesy.

_“Fine,_” he snapped. “I’ll tell you.”

“Uh, what?”

Flash pitched forward in a clumsy spill. His palms were dampened by nerves, and Peter could feel the humid warmth through his shirt as the other boy leaned on him for support, breathing inches from his face.

“You heard me,” hissed Flash. “I said I’ll tell you.” He tightened his fist around a clump of Peter’s shirt fabric, tugging it slightly for emphasis as he added: “But if you tell _anyone_—even that bodyguard of yours—”

Peter snorted. “Who, Ned? He’s not my—”

“Boyfriend, best friend, _whatever_—you tell him, I’ll slit your throat.”

There was a long silence, and then Peter said carefully, “Right, okay, but y’know—you could just, uh, _not _tell me.”

Flash scoffed, letting go of Peter’s shirt. “Like you’re not dying to know.”

“I mean, I’m not—”

“Shut up, Parker.”

Peter rolled his eyes; then, remembering it was pitch dark and he could get away with a more _honest _display of feelings, he began to make faces at Flash.

Meanwhile, unaware of his antics, Flash complained to him: “It’s crazy, but those_ idiots _I call my friends? They’ll give me a Benny each for every minute I stick it out in here.” He snorted. “Like, what—they think I don’t know they’re just afraid I’ll get with what’s-her-face? The transfer.”

“Oh, uh, Randi,” supplied Peter, trying not to sound as restless and disinterested as he felt. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to check the time again. There was no way to do that discreetly while Flash was still careening toward his point, but that didn’t mean _listening_ was inherently more interesting than examining the void like it were some immersive art installation.

“—like that, you know?” asked Flash, and Peter made a noise of agreement despite that he hadn’t processed a word of what he’d just been asked. “Right, so, anyway, I told them—I said, boys, at the end of the day, money talks! You can buy _anything, _even tits, but you can’t—”

Peter tuned out again. His head lolled back, and his lips parted in a silent scream directed at whatever murderous god might do him the kindness of rapturing him from this falsely advertised “heaven.”

While Flash might be making bank on their time in the closet, Peter had only agreed to join in the stupid game because Ned had begged him to “be cool” at the party tonight. _“Dude, c’mon,”_ he’d pleaded, practically hanging off Peter’s leg to maintain his attention. _“We’re the 99%! Our social overlords have finally summoned us! This could be our one chance to take down the empire from within, so be cool, man. Be cool!”_

And alright, it was silly, but maybe Peter had decided it wasn’t _the worst thing ever, _because maybe the obnoxious head of hair that bobbed in front of him every morning in first period was attached to a face that he liked looking at.

And maybe it was a face that _everyone _looked at whether they liked it or not, because that face was in every photo of every party that was ever boasted about on social media between its first hour and the next event.

And definitely _maybe_ he thought he might want that face to look at him just long enough that he could study the smirk on it and dissect his feelings—the varied sensations of butterflies or stones or being without gravity. He was, after all, a scientist-in-the-making, and he wanted more than anything to just… _understand._

Flash barked out a laugh, and the sound tugged at the fringes of Peter’s present awareness. The muddle of words trickled back in, then sharpened like a blade:

“—just because_ you’re _a twink,” said Flash airily. “I mean, god, it’s not contagious, right? We all breathe the same air! It’s not like—”

“I-I’m a what?” Peter felt his stomach tighten into several knots. He never expected that he could regret _not _listening to one of Flash’s monologues, but now that the other boy had gone strangely silent, Peter began to sweat as he tried to pull words out from the blank space of the last minute or so.

“Twink,” repeated Flash, letting the word hang in the air between them for a painfully long few seconds. “Look, don’t act all hurt about it. I can say it since we’re both—” He made a choking noise that became a cough as he tried to correct himself: “S-sorry, dust or whatever, uh—we’re both—um—”

His distress was palpable, and the reason for it almost too obvious.

Peter’s mouth had fallen open, but he shut it quickly, glad to be unseen. “Wait,” he began in a small voice, only half-aware that his thoughts were escaping, “are _you_...”

“SHIT. Shit, shit, _shit. _Fuck me!”

Flash fell back onto his rear with a dull thud in his haste to distance himself from Peter. He continued to curse and mumble under his breath, but the words were either incoherent or he had code switched into a language that Peter was unfamiliar with.

Either way, Peter’s focus had fragmented into a thousand, maybe a _million_, pieces by now. His mind was racing, trying to process what had just happened. If his senses weren’t literally_ beyond_ perfect, he might doubt what he’d heard because it was Flash.

It was FLASH, and _what the—when did—wasn’t he—_

Peter ground his teeth together, determined to get a grip on his mind. He reasoned with himself that, however unexpected, Flash’s visceral reaction left little to be questioned: his heart was beating almost out of his chest, so loud that _anyone _might have heard it. He had just outed himself in a closet of all places, and to someone who was now sitting in stunned silence.

No, they weren’t _friends, _exactly, but that didn’t matter now.

Peter cleared his throat. “So, um… I’m not gay,” he said softly, and swallowed his hesitation to continue: “I’m bisexual.” Flash’s breath hitched. “It’s not a secret, I’ve just… I’ve never, like, really talked about it.” His nerves manifested into a strained chuckle. “Didn't realize I wouldn't have to, so I guess—um—” He paused. “I guess I’m glad you told me? ‘Cause, yeah, now I know it’s—_I’m…_ out.”

There was a beat of silence.

A mumble spilled from Flash’s lips, and Peter thought he could detect a whisper of something broken but meaningful between a few curse words: _“—wanted to—not like this—”_

Peter fidgeted in the darkness, lacing and unlacing his fingers. “Hey, Eugene,” he said in a quiet voice, “I can keep a secret, okay?”

_“Don’t_,” Flash replied, his voice hoarse. _“Don’t _call me that.” He aimed a kick in Peter’s direction, grunting when he missed his mark. “Just shut up, Parker. _Shut up,_ and let me think.”

“Okay,” said Peter, instinctively raising his hands in a placating gesture.

In his head, he debated how many seconds would be a reasonable buffer between the tense exchange and the moment he could answer his nagging impulse to check the time again. He only got to a count of “nine-mississippi” before he decided to feign having hit the button against his leg.

“How long?”

Peter startled, blinking back the bright spot in his vision as he tried to find Flash’s face among the shadows. “Uh, it’s been about—”

Flash seized forward without warning, and just like before, he grabbed at Peter’s wrist. In the green glow of the LED screen, Peter could see something unreadable in the other boy’s expression. Their eyes locked just before the watch face faded to black.

In the silence, Peter waited for Flash to pull away. He didn’t.

Instead, Flash asked in a quavering voice, “Can I trust you?”

Peter simply nodded, knowing that his acknowledgement would be felt, if not seen. There was no mistaking the sensation of the gentle hand that was easing into his curls—a gesture both bold and tentative in its suddenness.

“Okay.” A faint, hesitant sigh stirred the air like a breeze. “Okay…”

“Okay,” Peter agreed, gently prompting.

“My friends don’t know,” began Flash, his words coming like molasses, “but I only took this stupid bet ‘cause I thought...” He trailed off, heaving another sigh. “I thought we could talk.”

Peter chewed his lip uncertainly. “We talk at school. I mean, kinda?”

“Obviously, but like, about _other_ stuff,” Flash amended.

“Like…?” Peter tilted his head, letting the question hang.

He could hear Flash’s clothes rustling as the other boy shifted positions, then sighed impatiently. “I just wanted to know,” he muttered, “if it was… true.”

Peter was silent for a moment. “Well, the creamy filling’s just a rumour.”

They both burst out laughing, and the awkwardness broke like a spell.

Flash ventured to speak again as the last echoes of their laughter began to fade, absorbed into the closet walls: “Don’t get an ego about it,” he said lowly, “but I think I might like you, Parker.”

“Wha—_me?” _squeaked Peter, too surprised to say more.

Flash snorted. “Yeah, _you,_ dumbass.”

Slowly, with as much grace as they could muster in the tight, dark space, they leaned in until the tips of their noses were bumping experimentally against each other.

Peter smiled, feeling weightless. _Well, this is happening,_ he thought. _This is really happening. I’m not dreaming, right?_

“No,” Flash murmured in response, because apparently Peter’s thoughts had not been as contained as he imagined. That was alright, though. The outline of Flash’s wry smile pressed against Peter’s burning cheek was _perfectly_ alright.

But in the next moment, just as Flash was teasing an honest kiss, a scant centimetre from changing_ everything_ about their future, Peter froze.

He heard the dull bang of a screen door opening on the floor above them—the tap and screech of heels and sneakers, grating giggles, and the thump of a friendly punch that landed just shy of too hard. He could hear, too, the whispered predictions, their intent to catch the two boys by surprise, and the rush of blood that marked the group’s adrenaline.

“Hold on, Flash, wait, I—” Peter turned toward the noise on instinct, feeling his spidey sense flare in warning as the basement stairs began to creak audibly. He flinched when he felt Flash’s head collide with his own, punctuated by a grumbled question which Peter’s anxiety-riddled brain processed only as an occurrence of noise.

“Shit, I’m sorry—_really_ sorry,” said Peter, scrambling to his feet. He couldn’t be sure where his embarrassment ended and his regrets began. It was hard to think around the storm of feelings that was building up in his head. “It’s not—”

“Seriously, you’re _sorry?” _Flash slapped away the hands that sought him in the dark, trying to help him up. “What the _hell_, Parker?” His words came like a snarl, all rough and wounded. “God, you’re such a d—”

He cut himself off, having just noticed several sparks of neon light through the seams of the closet door. The sky was darkening when the two boys headed for the basement several minutes ago. A few people had shoved past them in the hallway, yelling something about a trunk full of glow sticks and sparklers as they spilled out into the host’s driveway.

Outside the closet door, the sound of shuffling feet was overlaid by a muffled giggle and a responding chorus of harsh whispers.

“Shut up, Amy, they’ll hear you! _Jesus.”_

“Oh my god, just find the switch already—”

“Forget the stupid switch! Where’s the flashlight?”

“Um, I thought you had it…”

“Seriously, Jon? This is _exactly _why I dumped you.”

“Are you kidding me? This again?!”

“Can you two _ever_ just—”

_“Shut the fuck up!” _

The whispers quieted at that. Outside the closet, all eyes turned to the door. Someone inside spoke briefly in a hushed tone before a dull thud was heard, followed by a clatter of objects and another venomous outburst: _“Didn’t you hear me, Parker? I said I’m not interested, so back off!”_

No one moved until one of the girls at the back of the group swatted at a jersey-clad boy in front of her, using a glow stick necklace as a whip. “Jonathan, get the damn door!” she chided. “You’re so fucking useless.”

“Alright, _alright,”_ Jonathan replied, scrambling for the door knob. “Chill out.”

The closet door was kicked open from inside at that exact moment, nearly catching Jonathan in the nose. He stumbled back in surprise as Flash strode out with a steely expression, his hands clenched and shaking.

_“That,”_ Flash began, turning to face the open closet, “was the longest seven minutes of my _entire life.”_

A tentative, comforting hand was laid on his shoulder from behind, only to be shrugged off with a glare. He looked back down at Peter, and he held his stare despite the ache of how beautifully the other boy’s wide eyes reflected a rainbow of glow sticks.

“I guess you’re lucky,” sneered Flash, “because if it weren’t for that stupid bet, I’d have left before you got your fucking hopes up.” He paused just long enough to break eye contact. His voice quieted: “Your hopes better be the _only_ thing you got up in there.”

Amy clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling an astonished laugh. Next to her, a smirking Jonathan was leaning in to whisper something to the two boys crowded in behind him, and another girl had wrinkled her nose in disgust as she chewed on a wad of gum.

Flash clapped his hands together, plastering a grin on his face. “Pay up, assholes.” He gestured meaningfully to the group. “Don’t skimp out on me, Brit,” he snapped at a blonde girl who’d begun making a show of her near-empty wallet. “C’mon, I know you’ve been dealing again. Where’s the stash at, huh? I’ll sell it myself.”

The blonde sighed loudly, yanking a wad of bills from her waistband.

“Don’t worry,” Amy laughed, waving a twenty around between two fingers. “I brought a little extra.” She smirked, casting a sidelong look at Flash. “Anything you need, Genie. I’ve got you covered.”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you—”

“Yeah, yeah, _Flash._” Amy rolled her eyes. “Be nice to me,” she demanded, stepping up to him and laying a hand flat against his chest. On her tiptoes, she leaned in and whispered, “I can get you started on conversion therapy, free of charge.”

Flash stiffened. “Say that again,” he growled, pushing her away with enough force to make her stumble. “See what happens.”

“Oh my_ god, _it was just a joke,” said Amy, glaring as she found her footing again. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think—”

Jonathan cut her off with a groan. “God, your vagina isn’t fucking_ magical,_ Amy.” He laughed when her face screwed up in protest. “What, like anyone’s ever told you otherwise?”

“Yeah, Jon? _Yeah? _What about that _inchworm _you call a—”

Peter bowed his head, covering his ears to try and block out the ruckus. He felt trapped. More than anything, he wanted to go home, but if he tried to leave now, he would only draw the group’s attention on himself.

Resigned to wait it out, he shifted his weight, trying to dislodge the splintered wood in his shoulder. There had been a cheap wooden storage shelf on the wall above him. He’d realized it when Flash had shoved him into it. The jagged half that still clung to the wall was now hanging down at an odd angle, its spiked end threatening to rip through his thin t-shirt with the wrong movement.

Another minute passed, and the restlessness in Peter began to build. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself not to panic. _This is fine_, he thought to himself—and alright, it was a blatant lie. This wasn’t fine at all. But it _would _be fine, and that counted for something.

It would be fine because Flash had to be at least a little tipsy. Not that Peter had smelled it on his breath, but still, after everything that had happened—everything that had _almost_ happened—it made sense.

And anyway, there was the matter of present company, who were decidedly several shades of intoxicated. They were sure to have Flash getting blackout drunk before the night was over.

He would _want_ to forget it all—wouldn’t he?

On Monday, they would return to school, and Peter would embrace his relative anonymity in the crowded halls. Ned would find him at his locker, blabbering on about an invitation to the next “rager,” and then he would ask Peter to “pleaseplease_please_ come with,” and Peter would slap him—gently, with utmost affection—and tell him no, _a thousand times no._

“I said no, alright? I’ll handle this myself. Just go upstairs, man.”

Flash stood with his hand curled around the edge of the closet door. His head was turned to look over his shoulder at the retreating backs of his friends. They had left him with a few glow sticks around his neck and wrists in every colour except pink. When Brittany had teasingly offered him her pink baton not a minute earlier, she’d had to snatch it back before he could snap it over his knee.

“Um, hey…” Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper. He stood carefully to his feet, trying to step forward without breaking anything that the splintered shelf had left strewn in the darkness. When something crunched beneath his sneaker, he winced.

The sound was like a rifle shot with the air so quiet and tense.

Flash’s head snapped around so quickly that his neck crunched. “Hey?” he echoed, every bit incredulous. “No, yeah,_ hey_—” He leaned in, smiling darkly as he locked eyes with Peter. “Fuck you.”

The closet door slammed shut with a resounding bang, nearly startling Peter off his feet again. He could hear furniture scraping along the basement floor. “Flash, come on,” he protested, stumbling forward another step and groping blindly for the door knob. “This isn’t funny!”

There was a muffled sound on the other side of the door that sounded something between a scoff and a bitter laugh.

“I was never joking around, you _dick.”_

Peter sucked in a breath. He felt the cold bronze of the door knob in his palm. It turned easily, but the door wouldn’t give. He started banging on it with as much force as he dared, knowing that his fist would break clean through if he abandoned his restraint.

When he stilled, there was silence from the other side apart from the sound of breathing. The breaths were slow and stuttering, on the cliff’s edge of something _very_ vulnerable. It was a sound that gnawed at him like an unshakeable dog.

Peter closed his eyes and uncurled his fingers, letting his palm lay flat against the door. “Flash?” He bit his lip, listening for a response that never came. He tried again: “Flash, listen—”

“No, _you_ listen,” Flash snapped, his limbs quivering so violently that his bones seemed to rattle within him. “If you breathe a word of this to _anyone,_ your next seven minutes in heaven will be a near death experience.”

The silence between them was cavernous.

Flash lingered indecisively, half-turned toward the stairwell. “What happened tonight? It was a _mistake,”_ he said at last, his eyes screwed shut against the threat of tears. “No, you know what? It was bullshit. I was _lying.” _He grit his teeth together. “Don’t get me wrong, Parker. I’m not a fa—” His throat closed on the word. “I’m _not_… like you.”

Nodding as though Flash could see it, Peter sighed into the door. _You have no idea, _he thought, letting his forehead come to rest against the wood. _Maybe it’s for the best._


	2. Don't Worry 'Bout Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present time, it's an early weekday morning in the Stark Penthouse at the Avengers Tower, and that means IronFam shenanigans. This chapter takes a lighthearted tone to establish the "found family" dynamics between Tony, Pepper, Peter, and Happy, while also setting the stage for various _things to come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the prologue, this next chapter skips ahead two years to this story's primary timeline. As much as possible, I'll be building off any pre-IW canon, BUT please note that the timing and/or context of certain key events will be warped as necessary for this narrative to fit within the universe. For example, the Avengers Tower was never sold in this version of reality (the plane crash still occurred, but it was just an important industrial shipment). So yeah, disclaimer: I'm not married to canon.

**A COUPLE YEARS LATER**

The sun was rising in a lazy arc above the New York skyline.

Tony Stark was not a morning person—not usually; but today, he had stirred awake before F.R.I.D.A.Y. had so much as threatened to activate the Sleepyhead Protocol. There was no rhyme or reason to it. He sat up straight, threw the covers off, and slid into his Darth Vader slippers—last year’s Christmas gift from one Peter Parker.

Pepper woke a minute later, surprised to see Tony brushing his teeth with vigor in the adjoining master bathroom. He was smiling before their eyes met in the mirror, and he murmured a simple question as she passed him on her way to have a shower: “Sleep well, Pep?”

“Not as well as _you,_ apparently,” she laughed in response, shaking her head at his disheveled state. His hair was uncombed and his pyjamas were rumpled. The image was endearingly… _dad-like, _she mused to herself. It was a change in him that she’d never expected. Still, she was glad to be surprised like this—glad to see the way that his paternal responsibility toward Peter had peeled back the impenetrable armour around his heart.

God, now _she_ was wearing that same dazed smile he’d woken with.

And that smile only grew when Tony twirled back into the bathroom, reached in to pull his housecoat off the hook, and asked cheekily, “You’re sure it’s not Sunday? It _feels_ like a Sunday.”

* * *

Tony was singing softly as Pepper descended the spiral staircase to the penthouse kitchen. She was surprised when she realized it, thinking at first that he had put a record on. It wasn’t so unusual for him to get nostalgic, even amidst all the technological innovations that he staked his wealth on, but for him to sing—that was rare._  
_

_“Black coffeeeee…” _drawled Tony, leaning over the steaming mug that Dum-E had just poured him. There was a kitchen cloth draped across the worst of the puddles that had sloshed onto the counter. _“You sure do treat me riiiight…”_

Pepper chuckled softly. It was the first time she heard this particular medley. “Is that, let me guess—Elvis Fitzgerald?” she teased, crossing the cool slate gray tiles to him with bare feet. Her heels were dangling in one hand. With her other hand, she balanced herself on his shoulder while she tiptoed to kiss his temple.

“You laugh,” said Tony, trailing a hand down her arm, “but, if my empire should fall, our investments in the coffee industry will still buy us the whole nursing home.”

Pepper snorted. _“Well,” _she said, “that’s something to look forward to. Now, about breakfast? I hear coffee can’t compare.”

She began to pull away, smiling softly, but Tony tugged at her hand to keep her attention. “How about…” He trailed off, entrapping her hand in the fold of both his own, pressing it against his heart as he locked eyes with her. “We could do dinner?”

“Tony… it’s 7 AM,” Pepper replied, whispering it like a secret.

“Well, that gives you 12 hours to get ready. I’ll pick you up?”

“From Tokyo?”

Tony scratched at his chin, appearing to seriously consider it.

“Ask me on Friday,” said Pepper, sliding free of his loosened grip on her hand. “I’ll see if I can pencil you in.” She smirked at him, and before he could protest, she grabbed a muffin from the open tray on the counter and pushed it between his teeth. “Now, _eat _something.”

_“Vest man,”_ said Tony, his words made nonsense by the mouthful.

Pepper slipped her heels on as she moved toward the elevator. “I’ll be back in a few days,” she said, pausing to steady herself as she fumbled with a tangled strap. “Probably Thursday. I’ll call you.”

A bowl of fruit caught her eye at the corner of the island. She grabbed a banana for herself and then tossed a red apple at Tony over her shoulder. “Make good choices,” she chirped at him, covering up a laugh at his incredulous expression.

“I chose _you,_ didn’t I?” Tony replied, catching the apple with little grace to his movements. He covered up his fumble by tossing the apple back into the air, where he began to juggle both the fruit and his half-eaten muffin in a wide, lazy arc.

Pepper eyed him as she lingered by the elevator, double-checking the contents of her purse. As she was thinking to reply, her attention seized on something behind Tony. Her lips sealed into a smirk.

Catching the look, Tony narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What are y—_hey, _that’s mine!” He whirled around to face Peter, who had just snatched the apple and half-eaten muffin from mid-air with twin threads of webbing.

The boy was grinning, rocking back and forth on his heels as he polished the apple against his school clothes. “Webbers keepers.”

“That’s not a thing,” grumbled Tony, extending one hand with his palm up. “Stop trying to make it happen. It’s not happening.”

Peter giggled. “I understood that reference!” he said in delight. “It was a C+ execution at best, but—” He dodged the hand that swatted at him. “—I think you deserve your muffin back for the effort. It’s salivated, anyway.”

Scoffing, Tony took the proffered muffin and immediately bit into it as if to prove a point. “You know,” he began, swallowing his bite, “I just had an idea for the next upgrade on your suit…”

“Really?! What is it?” asked Peter, unable to hide his enthusiasm.

Tony trained his face into a ponderous expression. “Well,” he said, “it might not be possible. Heck, it might even be a little dangerous to try…”

Peter’s eyes widened with interest. He leaned in, gripping Tony’s forearm to pull the man down to where he could whisper into his ear, “What are we talking? Are we talking venom?”

“Kid,” said Tony, no longer feigning his seriousness, “if someone’s bothering you, I’d rather you punch them than poison them.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Don’t tell Aunt Hottie I said that.”

Peter rolled his eyes, releasing Tony’s arm. “No one bothers me, Mr. Stark. I’m _Spider-man.”_

“Uh-huh,” said Tony. “No one, huh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever happened to that little sh—_ell… _fish.” Peter frowned in confusion, and Tony cleared his throat before continuing:_ “Y’know, _that punk you’ve mentioned before. Cash? Stache? Dachshund?”

“Oh, uh—you mean Flash.” A shadow fell over Peter’s face as he said the name. “Yeah, um, that was... way back.” He looked away, fidgeting with the stem of the apple in his hand. “Guess I didn’t tell you. He went abroad with his parents, like, forever ago.”

Tony shifted uncomfortably, feeling like he had just knocked an old urn off a mantle and disturbed something long dead. His lips parted. Nothing came out. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see that Pepper was standing in the elevator with a small luggage at her side. Happy had his hand on the doorframe as they discussed something—like, probably what to do if Tony broke a kid’s smile in half with a stupid question.

“Hey,” said Tony, thinking fast. “We’ve got about 23 seconds before Happy comes over here and drags you out the door by your ears, so listen—” Peter slowly raised his eyes, still wearing a solemn expression. “I wasn’t joking about the suit upgrade.” He was lying, of course, but unlike Peter, he was good at it. “I mean, I have an idea. It’s not actually dangerous. That part _was_ a joke.”

Peter smiled a little. “So, no venom?”

“Maybe for your 80th birthday,” said Tony drily.

“Whatever. I can be patient.”

Tony snorted. “Prove it.”

“I would,” began Peter, a glint of mischief in his eye, “but you’ll have ghosted me by then. Like, literally. You’ll be—”

_“Anyway, _as I was saying. I’m unkillable. Next question.”

Peter couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re just buying time.”

_Would that I could, _thought Tony, smiling wistfully. “Yeah, what’s your price?” he asked jokingly. “I’ll take 10 years off you.”

“No, thanks,” laughed Peter, “but I think Cap’s got some to spare.” He took a bite of the apple, grinning even as he chewed. “Oh, and just so you know...” Tony raised an eyebrow, watching as Peter took a slow step back. “You’re a bad liar.”

The boy grabbed his backpack from where he had left it on the floor, hoisting it onto one shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly, seeing Tony’s look of protest, “you’ve got a couple days before I’m back. If you need ideas, just ask Karen. She keeps all my voice memos.”

Tony huffed. “I am _not_ a bad liar.”

Pausing where he stood, half-turned toward the elevator, Peter levelled his mentor with a blank stare. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Lying.”

Tony’s mouth was agape. This conversation—it just had to be a fever dream. Really, the kid was a _terrible _liar, and _really, _the audacity, the sass—in the man’s _own house_? In his _kitchen? _Unbelievable.

“No, _you,”_ said Tony, having not even meant to speak, let alone to say something so meaningless. His brain had entered autopilot.

Peter fell into hysterics. The sincerity of his laughter was so contagious that Tony felt his lips quivering into a smile without the explicit permission of his conscious mind. _Damn autopilot brain._

They didn’t notice Pepper’s confused stare, or the affectionate gaze it softened into when she had realized Peter was doubled over laughing, not sobbing. With a slight shake of her head, she laid a gentle hand on Happy’s shoulder to draw his attention back, and said to him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you back for so long. Peter won’t be late to school, will he? I can write a note before—”

Happy waved her off. “It’s not a problem,” he assured her, casting a pointed look at Peter, who was red-faced from laughter. “Kid wasn’t ready to go, anyway. Nothing new there.”

Pepper inclined her head, following Happy’s eyes with a thoughtful expression. “I think it’s Tony who’s not ready for him to go.”

“Well,” Happy replied with a snort, “he’s welcome to have his pyjama party in the car.” He crossed his arms. “In about a minute, I’m making the choice for him.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“Thank you,” said Pepper softly, causing Happy to glance at her in question. She smiled at him. “You’re a good babysitter. I never have to worry—about either of them.”

Happy barked a laugh at that. “Yeah, well…”

_“Miss Potts,”_ interjected F.R.I.D.A.Y. _“Captain Evans is requesting confirmation of your ETA at John F. Kennedy International_—”

“Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” said Pepper, raising a hand to the elevator’s camera in acknowledgement. “I’ll be in touch with him shortly.” She glanced down at her watch, then looked back at Happy. “I promise, I’ll get out of your hair. Just one last thing?”

“Anything,” said Happy, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Pepper leaned forward and slapped his arm lightly. _“Ask her out.”_

Happy sputtered in response, unable to form words. She had said the words barely above a whisper, but his eyes were flickering nervously toward the kitchen as though she had yelled a secret.

“You wanted my advice,” she reminded him with a wink; then, no sooner had she snapped her fingers, F.R.I.D.A.Y. stated flatly: _“Doors are closing. Destination: ground floor.”_

It seemed only a half-second later that Happy felt someone tapping him just below his shoulder blade. The touch startled him out of a daze, and he reacted on instinct, whirling around to place the brazen would-be assassin in a chokehold.

Only it wasn’t a brazen assassin. His arms closed on the empty air above a discarded backpack that nearly tripped him when his foot caught in it.

When he looked up, Peter was hanging upside-down from the ceiling with his arms crossed, looking very much like a bat. “You know,” he said with a sniff, “I don’t think hearses qualify for the express lane.”

Happy rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you to never sneak up on a bodyguard.” He reached for the kid’s dangling hood and yanked on it. “Come on, kid, we’re going to be late.”

“Do we still have time for McDonald’s? I’m hungry.”

“Liar,” said Tony, strolling up with his coffee mug in hand. After a long sip, he met Happy’s questioning look with a sidelong glance. “Kid stole my breakfast,” he explained, shrugging. “He’s fine.”

Peter flipped gracefully off the ceiling, landing beside the two men. “It was an _apple,” _he protested, putting his hands on his hips. “I am so not fine.”

“Right, so you get _stabbed, _you’re fine,” Tony began, sounding exasperated, “but you deprive an aging man of a healthy, delicious snack to satiate your _own_ stomach, and suddenly, you’re _so _not fine.”

There was a beat of silence.

“So, you admit you’re old.”

Tony took a long sip of his coffee, peering at Peter over the rim of his mug. “That’s it, you’re grounded. I’m telling May.”

“No, no, ‘cause last time, she thought you were _serious_—”

“Good. I was totally serious.”

“_Mr. Stark—”_

“That’s my name. Don’t w—”

“We’re _leaving,” _Happy announced, snagging Peter by the sleeve of his hoodie. “If you’d like to continue this pointless argument, you can do so in the back of my car.”

Tony slurped his coffee loudly, smirking when Happy glanced at him in irritation. _“Technically,”_ he mumbled into the lip of the mug, “it’s my car.”

“Um.” Peter looked sheepishly up at Happy. “I don’t have my phone.” As if to prove his point, he pulled his pockets inside-out, showing them to be empty. “Can I just grab it? It’s in my room.”

Happy heaved a sigh.

“I’ll be _really_ quick, I promise! Please, _please?”_

“Yeah, fine,” said Happy, releasing his hold. “30 seconds. Go.”

“Yes’sir!” called Peter over his shoulder, already darting down the hallway at an impressive speed. “If I’m _not_ back in 30 seconds—” He cut himself off with a yelp, nearly skidding into a window at a junction point. “Uh, I’m okay! Be right back!”

His voice faded around the turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the power of hyperfocus vested in me, I wrote this chapter almost entirely in one sitting and had to leave off a significant chunk for the next one because it was getting so long. I'm having a lot of fun with this story! Really looking forward to finishing the next chapter. To everyone who's been reading, thank you for your support! Special shout out to @brynnea, @IronPhoenix, and @SpideyFlash for making my week with their lovely comments on the first chapter.
> 
> P.S. In case anyone's wondering, the song Tony was singing is a mash-up of two cover songs: Ella Fitzgerald's "Black Coffee" and Elvis Presley's "Merry Christmas Baby." I'll be perfectly honest, I hate coffee, but I've had that line he sings stuck in my head for weeks and I was _convinced_ it was an actual song. Google assures me that it is not, in fact, an actual song. Those two covers would just make... a really good medley, okay? Haha.


	3. Parker Full of Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: a little retrospective insight into Peter’s life at the Tower, Ned proves once again why he’s the guy-in-the-chair, and Tony—for no reason at all, why do you ask—decides it’s a perfect morning for a pyjama party carpool to McDonald’s and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings_: swearing (minor), light angst, implied anxiety attack*, and minor injury/blood mention).
> 
> [*] _Note:_ This is based on my own experience with the disorder, in which anxiety or panic often manifests as despondency, inattentiveness, selective mutism, brain fog, etc (as opposed to more commonly recognized symptoms such as crying or shaking, for example).

There were several rooms on the lower floor of the penthouse, but very few reserved for guests. Tony had, not so long ago, decided to knock the main wall out between two of the rooms, redesigning the space into a suite for Peter. He had even roped May into helping him choose the decorations—something she agreed to _only_ when he had accepted the money she insisted on contributing to the project.

Around the same time, Steve had happened upon Tony after a training session one afternoon to find him flicking through the portfolios of local muralists on a hologram display. He had been grumbling about a _“Van Gogh would-be” _when he’d finally noticed Steve standing there, watching him with amusement.

_“You.” _Tony had rounded on Steve, jabbing a finger into his chest and meeting him in the eye. _“You’re one of those sensitive, artistic types beneath the spangles, right? Can you paint?”_

When Peter had next arrived at the Tower for an overnight stay, he’d nearly fainted in the threshold when he opened the door to find that the former guest room had an entire galaxy painted not just across the ceiling, but even along the top of the walls.

The rest of the space echoed that theme in many respects, excepting for the little “Easter eggs” that Tony had thrown in—like the Spider-man sheets beneath the Star Wars duvet or the poster of Iron Man in an Uncle Sam pose, pointing toward the full-length mirror with bold text stating: _“I want YOU to join the Avengers.”_ There was a sticky note attached in the bottom corner that read, in Tony’s scrawl: _“After you graduate from <strike>college</strike> MIT—with honours.”_

Peter had to be coaxed into actually entering the “sacred space,” and that was nothing compared to how long it took to convince him to interact with anything that he deemed too cool, amazing, or irreplaceable to be handled by a “mere mortal.”

By nightfall, Peter had asked approximately 67 times, by F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s estimation, if any of it was real—like, _really_ real—like, _are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone important_. And Tony had assured him_ yes, yes, absolutely, guaranteed, I’m never wrong about anything, don’t you dare question your worth_ about 35 of those times before he decided that something needed to be done.

So it was that a few days later, when Peter arrived for another overnight visit at the Tower, he’d found himself with an escort. Tony had offered, then _insisted _that he would help Peter with his bags—yes, even if that consisted strictly of one over-stuffed school backpack, and yes, even if Peter could have carried a baby elephant to his room without breaking a sweat.

_“Just let me do this,”_ Tony had demanded, ignoring Peter’s suspicious side-eye. _“Can’t I do something nice for you without having an ulterior motive? Answer: yes. Now, tell me about your day or something. How was school?”  
_

Peter had humoured him. He told Tony about the petition M.J. was preparing to present against the school board. She had been gathering student’s signatures to support an investigation into an uptick of discrepancies in how the dress code and PDA policies were being enforced with respect to teachers’ biases.

There was a notable tone of respect in Peter’s voice when he spoke about M.J. Something else, too, but Tony had never quite put his finger on it—and he’d forgotten about it entirely by the time they’d arrived at Peter’s bedroom door, because the boy had stopped dead in his tracks and just… _stared._

In the centre of the door, there was an engraving of his full name—_Peter Benjamin Parker_—placed precisely at his unique eye-level.

Well, actually, that was only half true. The initial engraving had been hidden beneath a gaudy nameplate that read _Peanut Butter Parkour._

Tony had scarcely had enough time to reach over Peter’s head and push aside the magnetized nameplate, revealing the permanent engraving, before Peter had wrapped him in a vice-like grip.

Over and over again, he had mumbled something into Tony’s shirt that sounded like _“happy sheep” _if you were content to be naive about it—and Tony was, because somehow, that made the moment more perfect.

* * *

Peter skidded to a halt in front of his bedroom, grinning at the gold-painted nameplate on the door. He’d insisted it be left there, just beneath the beautifully done engraving of his full name in cursive.

Every now and then, Tony would steal the nameplate and hide it somewhere in the Tower—the first place he had “hidden” it being the nearest trashcan. With some assistance from a search team of Avengers, Peter had recovered the tacky treasure, washed it lovingly in the bathroom sink, and super glued it back into position. That hadn’t stopped Tony from prying it off again a few days later just to set it atop the ceiling fan in the common room—but by then, it was a game between the two of them. No rules, no reason, no schedule. Pure nonsense.

“Alright, alright, _focus,”_ mumbled Peter, shaking his head as though it would clear his thoughts. He pushed the door open and surveyed his bedroom, frowning when he noticed his charging cable hanging off the desk with no phone attached. “Where did I—oh!”

Snapping his fingers, he rushed into the en suite bathroom. His phone was propped up against a soap dispenser by the sink. He’d been watching Vines while brushing his teeth and combing his hair, with one compilation leading to another until F.R.I.D.A.Y. had politely informed him that Happy had arrived on the premises. Realizing the time that had passed, Peter had thanked the AI for the heads up, then almost raced into the hall without any pants.

“Good to go!” Peter declared to no one, pocketing his phone. The device had vibrated in a particular pattern when he touched it—a subtle alert that he had missed calls or texts. As he made his way back to the elevator at a brisk pace, Peter reminded himself that Happy was waiting. It wouldn’t kill him to hold off on his compulsion to read his notifications. In the car, he’d have time to—

The phone vibrated again. This time, it chirped an alert.

Peter silently berated himself for having the willpower of a sand castle in the tidal zone, but he reached into his pocket all the same. _I can multitask, _he assured himself, quickening his walk as he lit up the phone screen:

_7 unread notifications from Ned L33T:_

6:49 AM: _Dude are u awake?!_

6:49 AM: _SOS PETER txt me back_

6:50 AM: _my man,, this is not a drilllll_

6:53 AM: _DO U value my life??_

6:54 AM: _then bring ur spanish hw_

6:54 AM: _my locker 10 am_

6:55 AM: _**be there***_

Shaking his head with fond exasperation, Peter smiled as he tapped the reply button. But the white space remained blank. An icon at the top of his screen had just caught his attention. On impulse, he pulled down the notifications tray, feeling a distinct prickle at the back of his neck as he stared at the alert.

7:08 AM: _Snapchat from Chairman of the Bored_™

7:09 AM: _Snapchat from Chairman of the Bored_™

It was a video message. His pace slowed as he moved his thumb to open the app, absentmindedly chewing his lip. Was it just an itch or was his spidey sense seriously warning him about a message from his _best friend? _The only thing he could think was—well, maybe if Ned was in trouble...

Peter swallowed. This couldn’t wait.

He opened the first video, turning up the volume as he did so. The screen went near-black as the video began to play, but he could hear the familiar hum of the bus engine and the cacophony of chatter that always had the driver burning holes into the rearview mirror whenever traffic slowed to a stop.

_“—can hear me—” _That was Ned’s voice, muffled and fragmented by the way he’d positioned his hands over the microphone. _“—bly should know—”_

The phone’s camera blazed white for a second as Ned accidentally turned the flash on, lighting the back of the seat in front of him. He squeaked, fumbling to turn the setting off again. _“Sorry,”_ he whispered into the microphone, then raised the camera so that the front of the bus was visible between the shoulders of two other passengers.

Peter squinted as the second video began to autoplay. It was a blurry point of view while the camera lens adjusted its focus, but he could make out a gaggle of shadowy figures standing in the aisle and a clump of surrounding seats. The video finally sharpened on the group of students. He held the phone closer, trying to make out anything he could from the traces of their conversation:

_“—long’s it been—”_

_“—girls there must—”_

_“One at a time, one at—”_

There was a round of raucous laughter. Someone turned unknowingly toward the camera, beaming as they exchanged a high five with another student. The person was animated, causing their face to appear grainy as the camera struggled to keep focus in the dim lighting afforded by the bus’s interior. But as they tossed their head like a prideful horse, Peter’s breath caught at the familiar lift of slightly overgrown bangs that revealed a glint of light in dark eyes.

_“Shitfuckballs,”_ hissed Ned, lowering the camera just as the person in the aisle locked eyes with the lens and started forward, shoving past a few students in his way. The last thing Peter heard from the video before it ended was an unmistakable sneer: _“If it isn’t Neddy Bear! Whatcha th_—”

THUMP.

Peter winced, raising a hand to rub at his nose and idly wondering when the walls taken on a softer quality than he remembered. He spent a lot of time colliding with walls, before and after the spider DNA had factored in.

“You okay?” someone asked, causing Peter’s eyes to widen like a deer in headlights as he realized the wall he’d collided with was, uh, _not _a wall.

It was Tony. His lips were curved uncertainly, like he had been halfway to smiling, then thought better of it. “Kid?” he prompted, laying a hand flat atop Peter’s head and bending to look him in the eye. “What’s with the Mutant Teenage Turtle vibes? Emphasis on the turtle.”

Peter choked out a laugh at that. “Mr. Stark…”

“I’m just messing with ya.” Tony ruffled the boy’s curls. “Seriously, what’s up? I had to send Happy down to the garage with an early Christmas bonus.” The look on Peter’s face at that made him roll his eyes. “C’mon, it was just a $20 Starbucks gift card, give or take a few zeroes.”

“Oh,” said Peter, shuffling his feet against the carpet. He was quiet for a moment, just turning his phone around in his hand. “Well, I better… y’know.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony slung an arm over his shoulders, leading the rest of the way down the hall. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he called out as they approached the elevator. “Be a dear and hold my calls until I’m back.”

_“Understood, boss,” _the AI replied immediately.

Peter shot a curious glance at Tony, who was still in his pyjamas, but said nothing. They boarded the elevator together, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. spoke without prompting: “_Destination: sub-level B.”_

“So,” said Tony, leaning back against the hand rails, “what ever happened to my Parker full of sunshine? I swear there were blue skies just this morning.”

“It’s still morning, Mr. Stark,” mumbled Peter, staring straight ahead at the door.

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine.”

Tony gave him a sidelong look. “Say it once more, with _feeling,” _he replied. “I might believe you.” The elevator began to slow, and he took a step forward in anticipation of the doors opening. “Then again, I might still call bullshit.”

Peter huffed, folding his arms defensively. His phone was tucked into his armpit. He couldn’t seem to let it go, not even to put it in his pocket.

_“Sub-level B,” _announced F.R.I.D.A.Y. as the elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding. _“Have a pleasant day, Mr. Parker.”_

Peter nodded subtly in acknowledgement, and the elevator lapsed into silence._  
_

Tony paused in the threshold, fixing the camera with a scandalized expression. “Really, and who gave you _life?”_ he whispered harshly, pointing a finger at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah—that was _me. _You’re welcome, by the way.” He threw his hands up in a dramatic gesture, muttering as he stepped out into the garage: “Have a nice day, _me. _Why, thank you, _myself. _I’ll certainly _try_ to...”

Happy, leaning against the driver’s side of a sleek black SUV, raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“It’s just my face.”

“Well, change it.”

“I just might,” replied Happy, glancing at his watch, “considering the traffic laws I’m about to break.” His eyes flickered to Peter, who was trailing behind Tony with an uncharacteristically saturnine expression. “Who popped his balloon?”

Tony glanced at the boy, then rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “If he’d _tell _me, I’d have hired the hit already.” When that got no reaction, Tony sighed. “Kid, you’re killing me here.” He grabbed the door handle before Happy could reach it, opening it and gesturing for Peter to enter ahead of him. “C’mon, let’s get me coffee. I _need _more caffeine if I’m talking for both of us today.”

“Sorry,” said Peter softly, sliding into the backseat.

Happy narrowed his eyes, aiming a discreet kick at Tony’s shin with the toe of his dress shoe. Startled, Tony whipped his head around to glower at Happy.

_I didn’t do anything, _he mouthed silently, rubbing at his shin.

Happy made no response, but regarded him with an appraising look.

Tony curled his fingers overtop the open car door, trying to gain an inch more authority on his tiptoes as he defended his point with a meaningful stare.

Snorting at the display, Happy shook his head. _Just fix it, _he mouthed in reply.

* * *

Peter held his phone in a tight grip. His hands were in his lap. As the city sights blurred into a meaningless palette of colour in his unfocused mind, he continued to stare out the window. He could feel the weight of Tony’s occasional glances from the seat beside him and the guarded concern in the rearview mirror that reflected Happy’s unusually soft frown. He was aware of it all, but only on the fringes. There was nothing and everything to say, so he chose the silence.

Eventually, the car slowed and pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through. When the line advanced to where they were next to place their order, Peter’s heightened senses picked up on a bored, unfamiliar voice spilling out from the loud speaker: _“Hi, welcome to Mick D’s. I’m Eugene—can I take your order?”_

There was an audible crack as Peter’s hands clenched too tightly around his phone. He registered the small, sharp pain that followed as though experiencing it through a fog. It was almost by sight alone that he located the small piece of glass which had dislodged into his palm.

Frowning, Tony looked up from the text he’d been tapping out. “What was—”

Peter stared at his broken, flickering phone screen. It went black within a few seconds. At the angle he held it, Tony’s concerned and bewildered expression could be seen reflected in the frame. Seeing that, it struck Peter who had given him this phone a scant few months ago. He felt the guilt begin to ripple outward, distorting Tony’s reflection into something like disappointment or worse.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly, hating himself for how flat and insincere he sounded, yet unable to speak with his usual frankness. “It was just an accident.”

Tony slowly nodded, openly assessing Peter’s demeanour. “Accidents happen.” He tried for a reassuring smile, but it went a little lopsided when he noticed the trickle of blood from Peter’s wound. “Looks like we should ask to trade the toy in your Happy Meal for a Band-aid.”

With one hand, Tony took careful hold of the phone, sliding it gently from Peter’s grip, and with the other, he caught a few red drops in his cupped palm. His head and heart lines were both tinged, bit by bit, with scarlet.

Peter had been silent for a long moment.

“I’m not hungry,” he said at last.

There was a pause, and then—

“Happy, park the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I leave you folks on a note of angst today, but don’t worry, it’s not all downhill from here! Emotionally, it’s kind of like the Tower of Terror. You gotta keep going up to build a false sense of security before you can properly enjoy fearing for your life at the sudden drop. But it’s okay because there’s seatbelts. And you can hold someone’s hand or whatever. Unless, like Peter, you’re secretly buff and might squish too hard.
> 
> Anyways, thank you again for the kudos and comments (shoutout to @Fentybebe from the last chap). Y’all are super sweet and I really appreciate it. I hope you’ll continue to enjoy this story! I have a million ideas for it, so we’re juuuust getting started.


	4. I'm Not Calling You a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Happy is a gift that no one deserves, Peter thinks he's good at lying (but mostly he's just good at forgetting things), and Tony does what he wants... up to and _including_ [redacted] <strike>because if you wanna know what an absolute mad lad he is, you just gotta read the chap. Them's the rules.</strike>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings:_ Mild blood/injury description and minor death mention.

The driver’s seat was empty.

Peter focused on the soothing hum of the idling engine, wanting little more than to disappear between the rough sheets of his bed in Queens. He wanted to wake up there with May’s hand against his forehead, wanted to hear her say, _“No fever, baby. You feel fine to me.”_

He wanted to shake his head in just such a way that May would _know_—in the way she always did. She would say, _“Alright,” _with that little sigh like she doubted herself as a parent. _“I’ll call the school,” _she’d tell him, kissing his temple. _“But no video games until you do your homework.”_ He’d smile at her as she lingered in the doorway, and they would share a look that said everything before she left for work.

Peter sighed, moving instinctively to curl in on himself, only to feel a gentle resistance. He blinked, looking down at the pocket square that Tony was holding against his wound. They had gotten the scrap of fabric from Happy before he’d left a few minutes earlier.

Initially, Tony had just asked him to get the first aid kit from the trunk; but then, Happy had returned with a grimace, revealing a small white box that contained only bandage wrappers and a half-tube of burn cream.

Tony had taken one look at the box before plucking the pocket square from Happy’s suit. _“Apparently,” _he’d complained in a huff, _“I don’t pay you enough to protect me from all bodily harm. No, apparently, I’m vulnerable to death by paper cuts. Is that it, Hap? My Achilles heel?”_

Happy, with his head poking in through the open window, had rolled his eyes. _“You’re not the one bleeding.”_ His face had softened slightly when he glanced at Peter. _“I’m sorry, kid. I’ll get some napkins—maybe a Band-Aid if they’ve got one.”_

He was gone before Peter could think to remind him that it wasn’t necessary. His healing factor was already at work. In as little as half an hour, there would be no trace of the wound. The only real issue was the glass.

“Hey, kid?”

Tony nudged Peter’s knee with his own.

Peter didn’t respond, but he looked up to see the jewelry pliers that Tony was wielding in his free hand.

“Look what I found,” said Tony, smiling uncertainly as he begun to spin the pliers between his fingers. “I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but...” He trailed off, biting his lip. “Well, it beats the school nurse making a medical discovery, right? C’mon, let’s—”

“Here,” said Happy, cutting him off. He tossed a brown paper bag through the window, not-so-accidentally smacking Tony across the cheek with it.

Peter’s lips twitched in amusement at the way Tony sputtered in protest, seizing the bag as if to choke it.

“What’s this?” asked Tony, leaning forward to peer at Happy, who was sliding back into the driver’s seat.

_“That_ is not for you,” said Happy, clicking his seatbelt.

Tony huffed. “Oh, no?” He made a point of rustling the bag as he pulled it open to investigate. After a moment, he breathed out a sigh. “Hap, you had _one job—”_

“Which I’m underpaid for if I have to tell you that, no, I don’t expect you to bandage the kid with a piece of bacon.”

Peter’s stomach released an audible growl, and he flushed in embarrassment when Happy smirked.

“Not hungry, huh?” asked Tony, chuckling.

“Um—” Peter’s stomach growled again, as if daring him to lie. He winced, shifting in his seat as he added softly: “Maybe a little.”

Tony passed the bag to Peter with an encouraging smile, then took up the jewelry pliers again. “Well, you dig in, and I’ll just...”

Peter glanced over as the pocket square lifted, revealing his half-healed wound. The glass shard appeared decidedly more embedded than it had before, with the way his skin was starting to stitch against it.

“I can do it,” said Peter, nodding to the pliers.

Tony shook his head in response. With his tongue held between his teeth, he opened the jaws of the tool and positioned it to grab the shard as firmly as he dared.

When he pulled, the shard came loose. A few drops of blood bubbled up immediately in its place, which Peter dabbed at with a napkin while Tony rolled down his window to discard the glass.

Happy cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, raising his hand to show the couple Band-Aids pinched between his fingers. With some reluctance, he added, “Sorry, I might have said they were for a kid, so…”

Tony snorted as he glimpsed the cartoon design through the wrapping. “Hello Kitty, your favourite,” he remarked with a wink at Peter.

Groaning, Peter stuffed a large bite of McMuffin into his mouth. “Dun need,” he mumbled through his mouthful, trying to pull his hand away. “S’fine.”

“You say that,” began Tony, crumpling up the blood-stained napkin and tossing it at his feet, “but you—” He faltered, unable to deny how slight the wound truly was. “—would be right.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile a bit as he chewed.

Tony held a Band-Aid up and asked with a hopeful lilt, “One for luck?” He grinned when Peter rolled his eyes at him. “Humour me, kid. I won’t live forever.”

* * *

“Mr. Stark?” Peter clenched his fists, determined to hold the eye contact when Tony turned to him with a questioning look. “I just… wanted to say thank you, and—” He took a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Before Tony could react, he continued: “The phone, I—well, I’m _really _sorry, and you don’t have to replace it. It _was _an accident, though. I just want you to know that.” His clenched fists were shaking slightly. “I’m sorry for being weird and all. It’s just—um—”

Tony nodded encouragingly, not wanting to interrupt now that Peter was finally ready to be honest with him.

“Earlier, I—I realized the date. And what today is.”

The car began to slow as Happy neared the school, and Peter pretended not to notice the familiar landmarks of his high school campus in his peripheral vision.

“Um, today is when—well, it’s the anniversary of… Ben’s death,” said Peter quietly, averting his eyes. He breathed a shaky sigh as the car stopped in the deserted drop-off lane outside the front entrance. “It’s been a few years and stuff, so it’s fine—I just get, y’know—I still miss him.”

Tony reached over to lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, I understand.”

Peter tried to smile. It was small and brief.

“So, um, thank you,” he said again, starting to fumble for his seatbelt clasp. “For breakfast.”

“Like I wouldn’t feed you.”

“Well,” said Peter, looking embarrassed, “you don’t have to.” He reached for the door handle, but Tony grabbed his arm before he could open it. Frowning slightly, he looked over his shoulder at the man. “Mr. Stark? I’m, uh, kind of already—”

“Late, I know. Don’t worry.” His grip on Peter loosened. “Why don’t you let the office know I’m right behind you?

Peter scratched awkwardly at his neck, about to say something before Tony cut him off with a raised hand.

“Go on, Pete,” he insisted. “I just need a minute.”

The door popped open, letting in a rush of morning air. “Okay, um—” Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, Happy. I’ll see you later—or Wednesday, I guess?”

Happy nodded, and replied simply, “Wednesday.”

When the door shut, the car fell into silence for several long seconds. Tony watched through the window until Peter had disappeared through the front doors of his school—enough distance to be sure that his enhanced hearing wouldn’t allow him to eavesdrop, accidentally or not.

“He’s lying,” said Tony.

“I know.”

“It’s not today. Not even this month.”

“I know,” repeated Happy.

“That’s, what, the third time this year?”

Happy grunted in acknowledgement.

“Am I doing something wrong?” asked Tony. “Be honest, Hap. Am I?” He bowed his head, running his hands through his hair as if bracing himself for vitriol. Instead, there was silence—and when he glanced up, peering through his fingers, Happy was staring at him.

“Get it together, Tony.”

“I’m—”

_“Tony._”

There was silence.

Happy sighed. “You’re Tony Stark,” he said, maintaining his stare. “You could punch that kid and he’d thank for you it.”

“Come on,” replied Tony as his hands fell away from his face. “Kid’s got fight! You know that. He’d punch me back, or at least think about it. He—”

“—wouldn’t have to, because I’d deck you myself.”

Tony laughed at that, surprising them both.

“Alright, alright,” said Happy, feigning impatience. He turned away, resting one hand loosely on the steering wheel, where he began to tap his fingers. “I’m going around the block while you’re in there. Don’t need anyone asking what we’re doing parked outside a school this long.”

Tony slid across the backseat, reaching for the door handle. “Too bad,” he sighed, “I was looking forward to explaining tomorrow’s headlines about my secret love child.”

Happy rolled his eyes. “Just _hurry up, _Tony._”_

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony kicked the door open wide, biting back a yelp when it swung back to hit him in the shin. He ignored the look that Happy shot him, and purposefully twisted around to grab the bloodied pocket square off the carpeted floor. “Did you want this back? I can have it dry cleaned. Y’know, there’s this one place—”

“No.”

“It’s family owned, and—”

_“No.”_

“—they specialize in _forensic_—”

Happy pressed the gas, pushing the car forward at a crawl—just enough to make Tony remember that his legs were wedged in the open door, with his slippers dangling out above the pavement.

“Christ! Alright, I’m going! Stop the car,” demanded Tony, still grumbling as he climbed out onto the sidewalk and smoothed the rumples in his pyjama pants. Before he closed the door, he leaned down to peer at Happy with narrowed eyes. “You can do your _own_ laundry, Grumpy.”

* * *

“But, look, if you’d just listen—”

“I’ve heard enough, Mr. Parker.”

Peter bent to rest his forehead against the edge of the imposingly tall front desk. The secretary was peering at him over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses, every wrinkle lined with suspicion as she tapped her acrylics against the keyboard. He looked up again when she loudly cleared her throat.

“Let me say it _again,”_ said the secretary, leaning forward on her elbows. “Your records indicate a history of unexcused absences—”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been late in _so _long, and—”

_“And_ without a parent or guardian to vouch for your whereabouts in first period, during the hours of 8:30 to—”

“I told you, I _told _you,” insisted Peter, gesturing wildly out the poster-covered office window. “Tony Stark, he’s right outside!”

“Yes, _Tony Stark_,” the secretary repeated drily, making air quotes around the name. “I see a faint resemblance to the guardian’s name we have on file, and yet...” She smiled tightly at him. “I’m afraid a ‘Y’ and an _‘Ark’_ do not equal to—”

“Tony Stark?!” someone squealed. “Oh my god, is that him?!”

The secretary straightened so fast that her spine made an audible clicking sound as her vertebrae re-aligned. She fixed a critical eye on the image of the man striding up the sidewalk to the office, then swivelled her chair to face the squealing office aide. “Samantha!” she snapped viciously. “Back to work!”

Samantha stamped her heels against the carpet, looking petulant. “But _Miss Lynn,_ look! That’s—”

“Not. Tony. Stark,” Miss Lynn said tersely, crossing her arms over the low-cut floral blouse she wore. There was a cool draft every time the front door swung open and shut. It raised goosebumps on her arms, and made her regret that she’d left her sweater at home. “Samantha, do use your head.” She sniffed distastefully, turning back toward Peter as she spoke. “_The_ Tony Stark would not be seen in his _pyjamas _at a _high school.”_

There was a beat of silence.

“Why not?” asked a familiar voice behind Peter. “No, be honest—the flannel, is it too much?”

Samantha’s squeal echoed off the office walls, so loud and piercing that Peter winced and plugged his ears with his fingers. He caught a sympathetic glance from Tony, who jerked his head toward the office chairs and mouthed, _‘I’ll handle this.’_

* * *

A few minutes later, Tony was staring Miss Lynn down across the top of the front desk, except he appeared that much more intimidating than Peter had in his position. Not that it mattered, since the stubborn old secretary wouldn’t budge on what she’d told him. Not for country and not for God, so certainly not for Iron Man. She’d assured him of that.

“Call her again,” said Tony through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry, but May Parker is _unavailable,_ Mr. Stark.”

Tony frowned. “Look, lady, he’s my _intern—”_

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“—_meaning_ that May has entrusted his safety to me.”

_“Meaning_ nothing,” corrected Miss Lynn, curling her talon-like fingers around a cold mug of coffee and taking a swig of it before continuing, “because according to our records, _Mr. Stark, _you are not this boy’s legal guardian.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine,” he said, digging his hand into one of his pockets, “so it’s a good thing I brought _this.” _He slapped his wallet down on the desk, letting it fall open to his driver’s license, which the secretary regarded fleetingly.

“This proves nothing relevant,” she replied, pushing the wallet back toward him with one delicate nail-tip. “Now, if you don’t _mind—”_

“Twenty bucks,” said Tony, snatching the wallet and holding it up. Miss Lynn stared, but said nothing, so he sighed and dug his fingers between the leather to produce two large bills. “Fine, two hundred.” A pause. “One thousand?”

Peter was gaping from the office chair where he’d sat observing, his face not dissimilar to an iconic Edvard Munch painting. He sprang to his feet when Tony continued: “Three thousand! Going once, going _twice…”_

_“Tony,”_ squeaked Peter, rabbit-eyed as he tugged at the man’s sleeves in desperation. “It’s fine, it’s fine! Forget it!”

“Yeah, just give me a second, kid,” said Tony dismissively, ruffling Peter’s curls with one hand. “So, how about it, Lynn?”

The secretary was reaching for the landline on her desk, all the while maintaining eye contact with Tony. “I’m calling someone,” she said in a sugared tone. “Why not have a seat?”

Tony heaved a sigh. “Kid’s right,” he said, as if Peter weren’t beside him. “Forget it.” He glanced down at the boy. “Let’s get you to whatever torture chamber you’ve been assigned in this _hell.”_ With a pointed look at the secretary, Tony laid his hands on Peter’s shoulders to guide him out from the office.

“Mr. Stark, _really, _I’ll be okay if you just—”

“Keeeep walking,” Tony drawled, nudging him along.

Peter groaned, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum as they entered a long empty hallway, flanked on either side by hundreds of lockers. It was lucky that second period was still in session, but if he couldn’t get rid of Tony before the bell rang, he’d have _years_ of explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @Fanficfreakkkk for making my day with a lovely comment! And sorry not sorry to everyone who got Natasha Bedingfield stuck in their head last time. If you need a new jam to distract yourself, maybe go and stream the Florence and the Machine song I unabashedly stole this chapter title from?


	5. Hush (Don't Say a Word)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Tony Stark doesn't _always_ face God and walk backwards into hell. But when he does, it's probably on a day like this one, when he's feeling free and spontaneous and— Okay, yeah, he's actually just a helicopter parent who can't shake the feeling that something's off about his kid. But it's not like he planned to walk into the fire with him. That just kind of happened. It's strange though... because Tony's been to hell before and he thought Satan had already gone through puberty. Apparently not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings:_ Light swearing, homophobic dialogue, non-physical bullying, brief implications of anxiety attack, and more warnings in the end notes if you're alright with spoilers for this chapter.

“Well, this is me,” said Peter, trying to look casual as he leaned against his locker. He watched Tony approach just as casually, his face schooled into a neutral expression even as his sharp eye caught the messy scrawl over Peter’s shoulder: _‘I like bacon and I like SAUSAGE.’_

Peter shifted slightly to his right. “Anyway, uh, thanks again, Mr. Stark, but Happy’s waiting, so you should probably… go now.”

“Right, you’re good from here,” Tony agreed with a trace of question in his voice. He smiled, taking a tentative step back.

“Totally good!” Peter exclaimed, nodding. “I just gotta put my ba—” His face crumpled as he looked down into his upturned palms. The Hello Kitty Band-Aid smiled back at him. “Oh…”

“Oh?” Tony echoed, raising an eyebrow. “What, you forgot something?”

Peter shook his head vigorously. “No, no, it’s nothing!” he replied, maybe a little too quickly. The smile he wore was more like a wince of pain. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, looks like it.” Tony hooked his thumbs in his pockets, smirking. “Don’t tell me, let me guess—you left your backpack. In Manhattan?”

Now Peter really did wince. “I have a spare,” he mumbled, toeing sheepishly at a crack in the linoleum, “so it’s fine.”

Tony’s smirk deepened. “Two of everything, huh?” His eyes trailed to a colourful display of posters on a nearby cork board. “If that includes your suit…” Peter froze, and Tony rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “God, not the onesie, kid. We _talked _about this.”

Peter, rather than replying, had turned in a tight circle to face his locker. He leaned to place his forehead against the cool grey-painted metal, then began to slowly bang his skull against it, cursing beneath his breath. The sound, like a dull clash of cymbals, was silenced when Tony wedged his hand between the metal and Peter’s forehead.

“None of that,” said Tony softly, offering a smile when Peter looked up at him with an anxious frown. “Just get to class. I’ll have someone drop your backpack off at lunch.” Already, he had his phone in his hand, and his fingers were flying across the keyboard. “Do me a favour, though?”

Peter straightened, a spark of light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Yeah, of course! Anything! What is it, like, a mission?”

“It’s sort of like a mission,” Tony agreed, not looking up from his phone.

Peter, leaning in on his toes, asked quietly, “On the web?”

“Uh—right, yeah, the web. I forgot that’s what you call this whole… _thing _of yours_.”_ Tony pocketed his phone, then crossed his arms, taking on an authoritative air. “Alright, kid, listen _carefully, _because inside this vault—” He rapped his knuckles against Peter’s locker. “—there is a _very _dangerous and unfashionable object in a minor’s possession.”

Falling back onto his heels, Peter frowned. “Mr. Stark…”

“Your mission is to gain entry and recover the object—”

Peter rolled his eyes, turning around to enter his combination into the locker. He stuffed a small packet of Ritz crackers into his hoodie pocket, then grabbed a notebook from the top shelf.

“—at which point, it should be surrendered to the appropriate authorities, who will _ensure_ its destruction,” continued Tony, coming around to lean against the lockers on Peter’s right. He paused, glancing sidelong at the boy, who was pretending to be very interested in the spine of his biology textbook. “Hey, I’m not kidding, if I _ever _catch you dodging bullets in that Halloween costu—_mmph!”_

“Sorry,” Peter murmured, having reached to cover Tony’s mouth with such haste that it stung them both. “I just…” He trailed off, frowning at a classroom door a few yards down. “I think you should go now, Mr. Stark.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Subtle,” he remarked when Peter had pulled his hand back. At this, the boy inclined his head—by all appearances, genuinely confused by the man’s comment.

“It’s fine, I’ll get out of your hair,” Tony chuckled, running his fingers through Peter’s curls in a spidery motion, “but make no mistake: I’m letting you win this round.”

“What…” Peter trailed off, staring incredulously as Tony started down the hall, his glamorous stride unbefitting of his hyper-casual attire. In a sing-song voice, Tony called back to him over his shoulder: “You can’t protect that onesie_ forever.”_

Peter might have laughed if the air around him hadn’t felt suddenly electric. He could feel the hair on his neck standing on end, vibrating with anticipation.

Without thinking, he shot forward—gripping Tony’s arm, he yanked him back several steps, and hissed urgently: _“Wait.”_

Tony stumbled, catching himself on the open locker door. “Jesus, kid, where’s the fire?” he panted, bewildered by the contrast of Peter’s panicked stare and the quiet, empty hallway.

“Um, it’s—I don’t know, someone’s coming,” said Peter hurriedly, “and I just—I think you need to go, but if they—_oh_—” Something caught his eye. “Here, quick, take this!” He reached into his locker, seized his yellow raincoat off its hook, then spun around to shove it unceremoniously into Tony’s arms.

“Something I should know about?” asked Tony, probing the pockets of the raincoat like he expected to find contraband.

Peter sighed in exasperation. _“No, _just… put it on!”

“Okay, uh—yeah, _no,_ not doing that.” Tony shook his head emphatically. “This colour, you know—it’s nice? But it’s very… bright. It’s very _you.” _He extended the raincoat back to Peter in a ginger grip just as a door banged open down the hall.

Someone was walking backwards out of the classroom, cheerfully addressing another person within: “It’s no problem at all, sir! They don’t call me _Flash_ for nothing. I’ll be back with those samples in a minute flat! I guarantee it!”

Peter moved on instinct. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the raincoat and leapt up, pulling it open like a cape to flutter down across Tony’s head and shoulders. As he landed, he grabbed the edges of the hood and tugged it further forward, then—just as the classroom door was shut with an audible click—he zipped the coat up to Tony’s chin, trapping his arms against his body.

“Stay quiet,” Peter whispered, flashing a hard look at Tony as he guided him to face the open locker. “Please, Mr. Stark, no matter what—not a word, okay?”

Even beneath the shadow of his hood, Tony’s put-out expression had been obvious; however, there was something in Peter’s voice just then that sunk in him like a weight.

It struck Tony that he wasn’t dealing with an overdramatic teenager who was embarrassed at the prospect of attention. No, instead, he was looking at someone he’d seen in battle—someone who had never seemed so vulnerable against a weapon as they did now, in the halls of an ordinary high school.

Tony blinked, realizing that Peter was studying his face with a hint of pleading. Against his better judgment, Tony finally nodded to assure the boy: he wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t call attention to himself. It was a promise made with gritted teeth, but he meant it—and not a moment too soon.

“Well, well… be still my beating heart! Is that_ you, _Parker?”

“Oh, h-hey, Flash,” said Peter, swallowing his nerves. “How was Europe?” He forced a smile as he glanced sideways at the other boy. “I, uh, didn’t know you were back.”

Flash sauntered a little closer. “Bullshit,” he replied, his tone both smug and sweet. “I caught your _boyfriend _filming me this morning.” He chortled at Peter’s flinch. “What, didn’t he share an eyeful? Doesn’t he _know_ you’re obsessed with me?”

“Ned’s not my boyfriend,” mumbled Peter, flushing pink.

“Dude, I’m so sorry! I had _no_ idea you two had broken up.”

Tony closed his eyes, not wanting to see anything in Peter’s face that would make him want to break his promise—and possibly the nose of whoever’s parenting had conjured this hellion.

The tension was shattered when Peter simply patted Tony’s back, and said with an awkward chuckle, “Sorry, uh… _Antoine. _Let me just find that textbook so we can get back to Chem.”

Flash stood by watching with narrowed eyes as Peter began to loudly rustle through the things on the top shelf of his locker.

“Chem, huh? You’re funny, Parker. Who’s your dealer?”

Peter turned to face him. “W-what?” he asked, bewildered.

“Your _dealer,” _Flash said again, rolling his eyes and jerking his thumb at Tony’s back. “I’m not fucking stupid. I know the candy man when I see him, and I could use a pick-me-up_.”_

“But—h-him?—he’s _not_—”

“Don’t even, man. I have eyes! And this guy?” Flash shook his head, assessing Tony’s build with a critical eye. “Yeaaahhh, he’s obviously been held back several grades, so _either _he’s a BIG idiot or… he’s a poor man’s pharmacist.”

Peter sucked in a breath, taking a half-step back and bumping into Tony’s side. He could feel the quiver of Tony’s muscles—the barely suppressed anger that might surface at any second.

“It’s just so funny,” Flash murmured, smiling bitterly at the ground, “because everyone thinks you’re so _special, _don’t they? But when you add ‘er all up, it’s _obvious... _you’re not_.”_

There was a silence in which Tony’s muscles tensed to where they felt like steel wire. The way Peter’s back was pressed against him, he could feel the boy’s heartbeat as though it were a bass track being played through thin walls.

Flash placed a hand on his hip, regarding Tony with a smirk. “Hey, big guy, how ‘bout it? You got more Addy? Whatever you’re charging Orphan Annie here, I can make it double.”

The tired sigh on Peter’s lips sharpened to a gasp as a dull shot of pain lanced up his spine, along the back of his neck. He raised his arm as if to massage the ache, positioning the crook of his elbow to obscure most of his face from Flash’s view.

“Mr. Stark,” he breathed out, barely audible, “something’s about to—”

_“Quick, over here! This might be him, Bates!”_

A uniformed woman with a head of frizzy ginger curls leapt into view from around a turn, striking an action-ready pose. “Alright, folks, what’s going on here?!” she demanded, wielding a taser in a sweeping arc as she started forward.

_“Janice, _for the last time—” The woman rolled her eyes, glancing back at the balding man in a matching uniform who had just cleared the corner, panting heavily. _“I’m _the superior officer on this case, so let _me_ ask the questions!”

The taser crackled lightly in the woman’s hands, emitting a vibrant blue light. She ignored her partner and continued down the hall, her approach made menacing by the intensity of her bulging eyes and jittery fingers.

“You, in the yellow! Identify yourself _immediately.”_

Flash jumped like a startled cat. He shot a quick glance down as though to confirm that he was still wearing his yellow decathlon jacket—something he’d refused to part with, even while abroad—before throwing his hands in the air.

“Eugene Thompson!” he shrieked, losing some of his height as his knees threatened to buckle. “I’ll cooperate! I’ll tell you everything, ma’am! But I want a lawyer! I know my rights!”

Janice faltered slightly—just enough that Bates caught up to her. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, and scratched at his chin with the other. “Kid, are you confessing to something?”

“I—I don’t know,” Flash squeaked, his eyes blown wide with fear. “Should I be?”

“Uh…” Bates cleared his throat. “Hold that thought.” Leaning toward Janice, he whispered harshly, “Put the _goddamn_ taser away! He’s gonna piss himself.”

In a low, shrill voice, Janice replied, “But he’s a criminal!”

“That’s to be determined!” Bates sniped back, glaring. “As your _superior officer, _I’m more concerned with being _sued _for your breach of policy 14, sub-section B, _non-exception_ clause 32, which _clearly _states that tasers—”

Peter jolted, feeling his lungs force a breath as sharp as knives. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing, or that his mind had whited out from anxiety. It felt a bit like returning from an out of body experience. He reconnected with his senses one by one.

There was something different than before, he realized—a very faint tapping sound that echoed in the hollow of his open locker. He attuned his ear to it, briefly considering that Tony might be trying to communicate a plan through morse code.

Finally, with one eye trained on the bickering officers, Peter whispered nervously, “Mr. Stark, what are you—”

_“Shhhh…” _The tapping sound continued. “Just wait.”

Peter wiggled his toes, far too anxious to _just wait. _He slowly twisted his head back, looking decidedly owlish as he tried to gauge what Tony was up to.

The first thing he noticed was the dim light of Tony’s phone screen. Evidently, he had managed to shimmy one hand out from the bottom of the raincoat, which had given him just enough range of motion to pull his phone from the pocket of his pyjama pants.

Tony held the phone in his right hand, with his thumb hovering above the on-screen keyboard. He was staring intensely at several lines of white text on a black background:

_>>Small Fry Protocol_

_+CONNECTED_

>>T.G.I.F. @ LOC

+STANDBY 00:02:37:05

+STANDBY 00:01:54:08

+STANDBY 00:01:02:06

“Alright, alright, that’s _enough!”_

Peter’s head whipped back around to see Bates standing with his arms crossed, looking annoyed as he adjusted the fit of his utility belt. At his side, Janice had frozen with her finger practically touching the tip of Flash’s nose. He looked like a deer in headlights.

“This is getting out of hand,” sighed Bates, resting a hand on his walkie talkie, “so let’s start from the top.” He looked pointedly at Flash. “Mr. Thompson, you’re _not _under arrest, but I _will _advise you to clear out your, uh, _magazines _before the next locker sweep.”

Flash clasped his hands in a prayer-like gesture. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bates, of course,” he replied breathlessly, “and if I may say, you are _truly _one of New York’s finest.”

Rolling her eyes, Janice lowered her taser. “What about _them, _Bates?” She looked sharply at Peter and Tony. “They’ve been too quiet. I don’t like it.”

“HE’S A DRUG DEALER,” Flash blurted out.

Bates stared tiredly at him. “That’s a serious accusation,” he began, raising a hand when Flash opened his mouth to comment, “and we’ll look into it; but first—” His lip curled in slight irritation, like he didn’t want to say what he was about to say: “We’re responding to a call about… Tony Stark on a llama.”

“No, no,” said Janice, wagging a finger, “they said Tony Stark _in pyjamas. _That’s what they said!_”_

“I _heard _what they said, and it was _definitely—”_

“In pyjamas.”

“On. A. Llama.”

“IN PYJAMAS.”

Peter made a choking noise, trying to hold back a laugh. He clapped a hand over his mouth when the two officers went abruptly silent, turning to look at him with varying degrees of suspicion.

“What’s so funny, kid?” snapped Janice.

Bates stepped in front of her. “You got ID, son?”

“I—uh…” Peter trailed off, distracted by the sight of Flash, who was peeking out from around the corner where he had disappeared a moment earlier. Their eyes met across the distance, and Flash blew him a mocking kiss before he was gone again.

Janice sighed loudly. “It’s a yes or no question.”

“Y-yes,” Peter managed, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he gazed determinedly at his shoes.

“And how about your friend here?” asked Bates, coming around to try and get a better look at Tony.

“Oh, um, he’s—” Peter swallowed hard. “He’s new?”

Janice leered. “Like, to the _country? _No ID?”

The loud, shrill ring of a fire alarm flooded Peter’s senses, and whatever lie he had been about to speak died unheard on his lips. His features were contorted in a wince as he tried to adjust to the chaotic surge of light and sound and movement around him. He could hear a pleasant, monotonous voice speaking over the PA system: _“This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Please proceed to your designated assembly points in a calm, orderly fashion. If you require assistance—”_

“A little help?” asked Tony, wriggling where he stood.

Peter turned to him. “Right, yeah—sorry about that, Mr. Stark,” he chuckled, reaching up to undo the zipper. “Happy’s gonna kill us both, huh?”

“He can try.” Tony stretched his arms out, then slung one around Peter’s shoulders with a wry smile. “I think your aunt’s the more likely assassin.”

Peter grinned, kicking a foot out to close his locker as they joined the flow of the crowd. “I won’t tell May if you don’t,” he promised—and beneath the joking tone, there was something serious which made Tony hesitate to agree, so he simply flashed a smile.

They continued down the hall in silence until they arrived at one of the exit doors. “Alright, kid,” said Tony, steering Peter aside, “I’m gonna split.”

“That _is _what a banana would say.”

Tony raised an eyebrow as he turned to face Peter directly.

Peter giggled. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, it’s just—with the coat and all…” He shrugged, still giggling. “You look like Bananas in Pyjamas.”

“Yeah, well, _you_ look like someone who’s taking the subway tomorrow,” Tony replied with a smirk. “And you better hope it doesn’t rain, because I’m keeping this.” He tugged the hood down further, his smirk widening into a shadowed grin.

Looking incredulous, Peter asked, “I thought it wasn’t your colour?”

Tony winked. “I’ve decided _everything’s _my colour.”

“The whole rainbow, huh?”

“Every stripe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Complete list of trigger warnings for this chapter:_ Light swearing, homophobic dialogue, non-physical bullying, brief implications of anxiety attack, interactions with police officers on school property, occasional weapon mention (taser), minor implication of anti-immigration stance (stock character's POV), and references to drug abuse by minors.


	6. Hope It Gives You Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Not all heroes wear capes... Ned and M.J. are lifesavers on the social scene. Meanwhile, Flash is determined to convince everyone (read: Peter) that his life is not only _amazing_, but he may or may not have found his true blue love overseas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, folks! This chapter ended up being the second-longest so far (after the first chapter) at 3400+ words. There's no Tony in this chapter (apart from a slight reference to him at the end), but there's a good helping of Ned, M.J., and Flash throughout. As indicated by the lack of trigger warnings, this chapter isn't a heavy one, but it's not entirely light-hearted either. I'm just setting the stage for things to come. We're nowhere near the climax of the plot I have in mind.
> 
> Also, please note that Peter's romantic options will be left open throughout this story. There's no endgame ship for him in this, canon or otherwise, so any ambiguous interactions with his high school peers are up to you to interpret. The only established long-term romances are between the adults (see the story notes).
> 
> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings:_ There's really nothing notable to warn about in this chapter. Please refer to the story tags.

The song of sirens had lured several residents from their homes along the fringes of the high school campus. They stood and watched in wariness as several fire trucks blazed down the street, responding to an automated alert that every smoke detector in the school had been set off at once.

Peter glanced through the windshield of an arriving truck as it passed the football field. He could see the driver frowning in confusion, leaning slightly into the wheel as if unable to believe that the campus buildings were visually pristine. The sky above them was all blue—not even a trace of chimney smoke.

“Dude, where have you been?! You left me on _read.”_

Turning to reply, Peter found himself almost instantly face-to-face with Ned—so close, in fact, that their skulls collided.

Ned had been rushing toward him when a foot shot from the crowd to trip him, and the next thing they both knew, an all-out football tackle had resulted in Ned laying flat atop Peter in the grass.

Ignoring the laughter and jeers of a few nearby students, Ned scrambled onto his knees and helped Peter to sit up. “Oh god, sorry, I’m such an idiot,” he sighed, his brow wrinkling into a frown. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?” He leaned forward, studying Peter’s face as he held a fist up between their noses.

“You’re not an idiot,” said Peter, reaching out to lay a hand over Ned’s fist, “but I’m not sure fisticuffs is a medically advisable way to rule out a concussion.”

Ned grinned. “Well, it’s the medically_ awesome_ way to check if you’re hallucinating fingers.”

Laughing, Peter shook his head. “You’re so weird, man.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” Ned answered smugly.

There was a beat of silence.

“The longer we’re friends,” said Peter, striking a thinking pose, “the more I find myself wondering if words have any meaning—like, at all.”

“Oh, they don’t,” Ned assured him as he stood up and brushed his jeans off. “Collectively, as a generation, we’ve confirmed this.”

Peter chuckled, taking the hand Ned offered to pull him to his feet. He felt a faint prickle at the base of his neck, and glanced around, realizing that most everyone else had assumed their position in the designated line-ups. The way Ned’s face had suddenly frozen in abashment told Peter all he needed to know about the shadow that fell over them a short moment later.

“Oh, I’m _sorry,” _drawled Mr. Harrington, dripping sarcasm, “were you two boys planning a picnic? I’d _hate_ to interrupt.”

“Uh, sorry, Mr. Harrington,” Peter replied, grimacing as he turned to face the teacher. “I tripped, and Ned was just—”

“I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE.”

Mr. Harrington gave a bone-weary sigh as he regarded Ned, who had stepped in front of Peter with his arms spread wide in defence. The look in his eye was so wild and passionate that, frankly, there was no reason to be sure he wasn’t serious.

_“Ned…” _(That was Peter.)

“I’ll take his punishment, sir,” Ned continued valiantly, ignoring both Peter’s groan and the meaningful tug at his sleeve. “Please, spare him. Queens needs its he—”

“HERESIOGRAPHY!”

There was an awkward silence.

“Queens needs its… h-heresiography,” Peter continued, gulping down his nerves. “Heresiography—the, uh, study of heresy?”

Mr. Harrington adjusted his glasses, frowning. “That’s _heresiology, _Peter.” He crossed his arms. “We won’t keep our trophy long if you’re cutting corners on practice again.” His eyes narrowed, and he took on a dubious expression. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember either of those terms from this year’s curriculum.”

“Uh, that’s because…” Peter glanced at Ned, who shrugged. “It’s not?” His voice pitched, and he chuckled in embarrassment. “Sorry, it’s just, um—Ms. Pflaum loves a pop quiz and all. Guess we’ve got medieval history on the brain.”

Ned’s head bobbed in agreement. “What he said!”

Inhaling sharply, Mr. Harrington repeated, “Medieval history?” He laid one hand on both boy’s shoulders, looking between them with a strange smile. “You’ve found the snake in the tree of knowledge. That woman, she’s…” His eyes became less focused. “She’s a boot against STEM itself—and against _you, _our most vulnerable sprigs.”

Ned snorted out a laugh, earning an elbow from Peter.

“Oh, I understand, Mr. Leeds, if you don’t believe me.” Mr. Harrington turned away, his arm outstretched to the distance in a poetic gesture. “I was young once, and as careless in the face of catastrophe. Now, look at me…”

“What happened?” Ned blurted, only then realizing how it sounded. “Uh—n-not like you’re not totally my hero.”

Mr. Harrington sniffed. “That’s a generous lie, young man.” He straightened up, taking hold of both boy’s shoulders again. “Well, come on, let’s not dawdle. I’ve got heads to count, and if yours aren’t among them, I’ll lose mine.”

* * *

A few minutes later, as they stood in line with the rest of their homeroom, Ned turned to Peter with a gasp. “Did you remember?!” he asked, his eyes wide and searching. _“Please _tell me you remembered.”

“I don’t know,” said Peter drily, “can you be more specific?”

“The homework, dude! The homework for Spanish? The homework that I texted you about! The homework that I totally _did_ do, by the way, before my little sister ATE IT.”

Peter frowned thoughtfully at Ned, who was practically hyperventilating. “Hey, since when do you have a little sister?”

Ned huffed. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Honest question!” Peter insisted, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But okay, um, about this morning...” He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “See, it’s not so much that I forgot the _homework_—”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just forgot my backpack.”

Groaning loudly, Ned staggered to his knees like a defeated knight. “It’s all over for us,” he sighed, ignoring the stares of the other students around them as he clutched at his chest.

“Man, come on, I’ll get my backpack at lunch, and—”

“You _know_ Señora won’t accept anything late from us unless there’s, like, actual blood on it, right?”

There was a beat of silence.

“It’s a good thing you two idiots have _me,_ then.”

Peter whipped around to find M.J. standing a few feet down in the line that ran parallel to theirs. In crossed arms, she held her sketchbook and a library copy of _Fahrenheit 451_—the only items she had grabbed off her desk before evacuating her classroom.

Catching Peter’s eye, she smirked, then raised an eyebrow at Ned. “Get up, loser,” she ordered. “When we get back in, you have exactly 5 minutes to leech off me or acquire a life-threatening injury.”

Ned scrambled to his feet, exclaiming, “Thank you, thank you, _thank you!”_ He held his hands up in a gesture of praise. “You’re a queen—no, a _goddess _among women! You’re—”

“Going with Plan B: life-threatening injury if you don’t shut up.”

Peter burst into laughter, and for just a moment, he thought he noticed a flicker of a smile on M.J.’s lips.

* * *

Soon, it was lunch.

Peter stood alone at the entrance to the cafeteria, his eyes wandering to the wall clock with increasing frequency. He’d arrived with every intention of waiting on Ned and M.J., but that was before the acid in his stomach had begun to feel like it was burning through skin and patience alike.

He winced as another guttural roar of hunger attracted glances from a group of students passing by. Ducking his head, he grabbed a tray and tucked it under his arm, then melted into the sea of colour and sound inside the cafeteria. The lunch line was long, but in constant motion. He could be patient as long as he focused on something besides his urgent hunger.

With that in mind, he seized onto a thread of conversation somewhere in the line that was building up behind him:

“—cute _and_ cultured? Like, come on, what’s the catch?”

“I’ll tell you what—he’s either gay or he’s spoken for.”

“You’re so right, Bev. I heard he met some girl abroad.”

“God, I’ll just_ die _if she’s a royal or something.”

“Was he even in England, though?”

“She says like there aren’t _other_ kingdoms…”

Peter sighed, turning his attention toward the food counter. The smell of over-baked potatoes, under-sauced spaghetti, and mystery meat was doing nothing to whet his appetite, but he knew from experience that his stomach was more likely to revolt from emptiness than kitchen nightmares.

Setting the tray down, he lifted his gaze to find that the serve was already staring at him. “Meat or veggie?” the man asked gruffly, itching at his neon orange hair net with the back of his wrist.

“I—um—” Peter grimaced at the sight of the slightly grey-tinged baked potatoes through the fogged-up glass. “Mea—” He stopped himself when a particularly strong waft of mystery meat carried up his nose. With a sigh, he mumbled, “Veggie, please.”

The server stabbed at a potato with two long prongs, then let it slump onto a chipped white plate. He held Peter’s eye contact, completely unblinking, as he slopped a generous spoonful of runny, off-white sour cream on the un-sliced potato. Like a miser, he then counted out exactly seven slices of chives, which he placed with agonizing precision.

“T-thanks,” said Peter, gingerly taking the plate to set on his tray. He slid further down the line, wordlessly accepting a carton of chocolate milk and a bowl of acid green jello.

At the register, he dug his ID card out from his pocket, averting his eyes as the cashier rang it through. Like every time, the old woman—Jeanette—uttered a simple “ah” as the charge showed $0.00, indicating his enrolment in the subsidized lunch plan. She passed his card back between the pinch of her thumb and forefinger, and no sooner had he reached to take it, she barked out for the next.

* * *

“Look, guys, it’s just _different _when you’re living there. I mean, it’s like—you can go on safari, but it won’t make you Tarzan, am I right? You’re not local until you’re there long enough to be embraced by the _genius _of the city…”

M.J. looked up from the book she was reading. “Hey,” she said, studying the tension in Peter’s jaw as he chewed a bite of his potato. “You’re too quiet. I can’t concentrate.”

With a fond eye roll, Peter replied, “Sorry, it’s just…” He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder at Flash, who was still chattering animatedly at the table next to them. “Did they always sit there?”

Ned shook his head as he slurped up a dangling spaghetti noodle. “Nope.”

There was a round of raucous laughter from Flash’s table, and the boy could be heard chuckling as he started to say, “Alright, alright, settle down. I’ll tell you one better. Let’s see, it must have been my third week there—I’d just come back from an overnighter in Belgium—and the baker, he says to me—”

“Dude, forget that, what about your hook-up? I keep hearing all this shit like she’s a princess, but for real?”

“Oh god, imagine! You’d be, like, _Midtown’s _Middleton! That’s _so_ completely romantic, I can’t even be jealous.”

Flash’s heartbeat had become quick and stuttering, but that was something only Peter could hear. It was the same with the underlying cracks in Flash’s smug and casual tone when he addressed his friends again: “Look, I don’t want to jinx anything, _but_…”

“You okay, Peter?” M.J. asked, setting her book down next to her tray. “It kinda looks like you’re about to mash that potato… with your face.” She raised an eyebrow.

Peter lifted his head, smiling weakly. “I’m just tired.”

“D’you wanna move?” asked Ned, jerking his head at an empty table several feet away.

“It’s fine,” said Peter, stabbing his fork into his potato’s already mutilated middle-section. “I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, you mentioned.” M.J. rolled her eyes at him.

Peter gave an apologetic half-smile, then dropped a clump of potato into his mouth. He swallowed quickly as a prickle of warning alerted him to movement at his back. With a put-out sigh, he slid into the empty seat next to him, meeting the watchful gaze of M.J. with a shrug.

A split second later, a jersey-clad boy was shoved backwards into the vacated seat, laughing breathlessly. “Heyyy there,” he drawled, hanging his head back until his short brown hair was grazing the tabletop. “Just, uh, thought I’d drop in.”

M.J. regarded him disdainfully, her eyes flickering to the boy’s elbow, which had landed messily in Peter’s bowl of jello. She frowned at that, but before she could say anything, the boy had leapt to his feet and rejoined the crowd around Flash’s table.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Peter, offering a small smile as he rubbed at a bit of the jello that had sprayed on his hoodie.

Huffing, M.J. pushed her half-eaten jello across the table to him. “Here, have mine. I’m getting full.”

“No, my lord, take mine!” Ned bowed his head as he extended the bowl of jello to Peter in a dramatic display. “It’s the _least_ my family can offer you after all you’ve done for our great kingdom of Queens…”

Peter laughed, waving his hands in refusal. “Thanks, you guys, but I’m—”

“YEAAAH, BOY!”

“SERVE IT HOT!”

Flash leapt onto the table behind them with a toothy smile, cheered on by whoops and hollers. On a whim, Peter glanced over his shoulder, taking in the sight of the other boy striking poses in a paper crown. He was surprised when Flash caught his eye and held it with a smug expression, almost as if he’d been _waiting _for Peter to notice him.

That simple thought, the very _possibility_ was enough to make Peter’s organs twist like a bag of pretzels. He quickly looked away, grabbing his fork and shovelling potato into his mouth before Ned or M.J. could try to engage him.

Flash’s voice raised, bright with laughter: “Tell me I wasn’t born to be king, huh? Tell me!”

Without thinking, Peter leaned slightly to the left—just in time to dodge the wadded up paper crown that sailed past his ear and hit Ned’s forehead, then rolled down his nose to land in his spaghetti.

“Dude,” grumbled Ned, flicking the wad of paper aside with his fork. “It’s like he’s leading into a bad rendition of Be Prepared.”

M.J. smirked. “Actually, I _think_ he’s auditioning for Simba.”

Clearing his throat, Ned replied in his best impression of Zazu’s voice, “Thus far, a rather uninspiring thing!” His straight face crumbled, and he raised his hands to hide a cheeky grin.

Peter chuckled weakly as he finished up his meal, feeling it settle in his stomach like a weight. He heard a thump from the other table as Flash took a seat on the closest edge, resting his sneakers in one of the chairs.

“What do you want to know?” asked Flash, addressing someone who stood in the space between him and Peter. “Like I said, it’s not _official_ until she talks to her father, and he really doesn’t like me much, so I can’t say a lot about it right now.”

“Okay, but exactly how _unofficially_ official is it?”

“Yeah, like, can we still ask you to the Sadie Hawkins?”

Flash chortled. “Ladies, ladies, of course! If you want the truth, we’re in a bit of an open relationship while we sort the details…”

There was a rustle of fabric, and then Peter felt someone kick him lightly under the table. He blinked, looking up to see Ned staring back at him, dangling his fork like a pendulum. When Peter didn’t immediately catch on, Ned rolled his eyes and grabbed his fork into a fist, arching his eyebrow to an exaggerated degree.

Peter slowly attuned to the sensation of warm metal in his own grip. _Oh,_ he mouthed at Ned, quickly dropping his hand into his lap. He grimaced as his fingers uncurled to reveal a crumpled fork. The stainless steel had been bent to where it was beginning to resemble a cheap stand-in for brass knuckles.

“I’m done,” announced Peter, slipping the damaged fork into his hoodie pocket. “I think I’m gonna… go.” He grabbed his tray and stood up, his eyes shifting in the direction of the exit. “I’ll catch you guys in study hall?”

Ned and M.J. traded looks, and then she answered, “Nah, we’re done here. Let’s bolt.” She tucked her book beneath her arm, and they both stood to collect their trays, leaving the table empty.

It wasn’t quite spidey sense, Peter thought, but he had that certain sense of someone watching as they walked away. He didn’t look back, though—didn’t want to see anymore of the smile that never quite reached those dark, bottomless eyes.

Peter froze when he heard his name. The voice, he realized, was unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel more or less concerned about it.

“Peter?” Ned had turned around to face him, his head inclined in a quizzical expression. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yeah, um—” He bit his lip. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Uh, never mind,” replied Peter, starting forward again.

He ignored the sidelong look that M.J. gave him when he arrived next to her at the trashcans. She’d already emptied her tray and was setting it down in a wash bin. After a long moment, she said simply, “I think that guy wants you.”

Peter jolted. “W-what?”

“That guy,” she repeated, nodding her head toward a man in a distinctive orange shirt and baseball cap. He was standing at the threshold of the cafeteria, looking lost as he balanced a pizza box in one hand while dangling a blue backpack from the other. His neck was craned out like a heron above the water as he searched the faces of the students passing him by.

A boy of similar description to Peter neared the exit, only to be accosted by the man. “Kid! Hey, kid! Are _you _a Peter?”

“I’m a Chad,” the boy replied, scuttling away from him.

The man sighed, looking around again. “Peter? I’m looking for a Peter. Has anyone seen a Peter? Peter Parker? No?”

“You said Parker, dude? I’m a Parker!”

Wearily, the man regarded the short boy in black jeans who had just sidled up with hungry eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he said, angling the pizza box to read from a paper on top of it. “It says here you gotta answer one of my questions.”

“Yeah, totally—like trivia? I’m bangin’ with that stuff.”

“Okay, Mr. Parker, it says here to, uh… name an emotion that takes you places.”

The boy looked around, then leaned in to respond lowly, “What, like, sex?”

“That—that’s not an emotion.”

“But am I right, though? Like, when you’re _really_—”

Peter cleared his throat. “Happy,” he said, having just wandered up to the man with Ned and M.J. at his heels. Shrugging, he added, “I’m Peter Parker, sir.”

“We’ll see,” said the man, angling the pizza box to reference his note again. “I have another question. In which month are most cases of food poisoning reported?”

Chuckling, Peter easily replied, “May.”

“Right. Here you go.” The man proffered the backpack and the pizza box. “Extra large, double cheese, extra pepperoni with a stuffed crust, and uh, special request for a single piece of pineapple.” At that, he peeked into the box, frowning. “Yeah, I think it’s hidden under the roni or something.”

Peter suppressed an eye roll at Tony’s pettiness. There was an ongoing disagreement at the Tower about the right of pineapple to exist on pizza. The last time the team had argued about it, Peter had simply suggested, _“Both is good.”_ Scandalized, Tony had accused him of being a “tasteless traitor”—and so began his game of hiding a single piece of pineapple in every dish of Peter’s he could get his hands on.

“Hey, thanks, man—sorry about the wait,” said Peter, passing the pizza box back to Ned, who clutched at it all too eagerly. “I can give you a tip, let me just—”

The man shook his head, already backing away. “You keep your money, kid,” he insisted. “I’m about ready to retire on what I got just for coming out here.”

M.J. popped the box open and snatched a piece of pepperoni, chewing on it as she watched the man disappear from view. “It’s what he deserves,” she said quietly, catching Peter’s eye as he turned to her. His confused smile made her chuckle, and she fist-bumped his shoulder. “I’m just saying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been supporting this story! Your comments are absolutely the best. I was so tired last time I posted, I forgot to give a special thanks to the folks from Chapter 4: @idk and @fanficfreakkk. As for the last chapter, shout out to @Bullwinkle12! I really appreciate all the kind words and enthusiasm from you guys. It's awesome of y'all to take the time to comment. I'm grateful for the many kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions, as well. Thank you!


	7. If I'm Being Honest, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: If the current state of F.R.I.D.A.Y. is any indication, the-guy-in-the-chair might be a bad influence on The #1 Intern. But that's not Tony's primary concern. He's suffering from a case of Emotions that can't be fixed by menacing Happy or texting nonsense with Peter, so it's clearly serious. At 1 AM, the last people he expects to open up to are Bucky and Steve. But it's not like he doesn't have time to get used to the idea, because as it turns out, they have something to tell him _first._ And yeah, it's going to be a long night, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, listen, y'all, take special note that this chapter is marked "Part 1" for a reason. It was getting really, really long, so I decided to cut it and continue into the next chapter rather than trying to force a close to the last scene. As such, there's a wee cliffhanger, but don't worry, Chapter 8 will pick up immediately where this one leaves off.
> 
> There's some Happy at the beginning of this chapter, and Peter appears briefly via text, but most heavily featured will be Tony, Steve, and Bucky. On that note, please keep in mind that canon is putty in my hands, so although I consider Civil War as part of this storyline, I'm entertaining a fantasy version in which men are allowed to be emotionally vulnerable, adult communication is attempted, and family toughs it out instead of giving up on each other (I know, crazy... definitely a work of fiction right here).
> 
> Last thing: I wasn't sure about this until I fact-checked, but yeah, Steve can speak fluent Russian. This is something you should know for this chapter in case you didn't already know it (no worries, it's all written in italicized English because I neither speak Russian nor trust Google Translate with my life).
> 
> _Chapter-specific trigger-warnings:_ There's definitely some angst, but nothing else of note I can think to warn about. Please review the story tags for general warnings.

With Pepper en route to Tokyo, there were several business formalities that Tony had reluctantly agreed to take care of over the next several days. Mostly, they were video calls—which was not so terrible, unless Tony was running late in his pyjamas _and_ wearing a rain coat on a sunny day.

He’d told Pepper many times that his genius “spoke for itself,” and despite all she would smile and nod at that, he wasn’t fooled into thinking she actually agreed with him. In fact, he’d triggered at least three of her booby traps, or so-called _dress code enforcement protocols_, in the last month alone.

The latest fail-safe he’d discovered was genuinely _delightful_—which is to say that, when the opportunity arose, he was not above making some practical entertainment of it._  
_

“Happy,” he’d said as they pulled into his private parking garage at the Tower, just before lunch, “I’m late for my call with Johnson, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. can’t hold him much longer, so—”

“Whose fault is that?” Happy shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “We’re nowhere _near _Missouri, so don’t you dare try and blame the Flash for this _again._”

Tony rolled his eyes. He hadn’t gotten much more than a word in earlier, when they were leaving Peter’s high school. Something about texting Happy that “something had come up” and “can you meet me out back” and “don’t mind the alarms, I’m fine” had left the long-suffering man with little patience for conversation.

When Happy had tired of yelling, he’d drowned out Tony with a solid 20 minutes of Shania Twain dance remixes dialled to an ear-bleeding volume. At the end of the playlist, Tony made the mistake of expressing his relief, to which Happy responded with a spiteful 10 minutes of Aaron Carter, albeit at a less intense volume.

“My _point_ is_,_” started Tony, unbuckling his seatbelt, “the Emperor needs clothes—_new_ clothes. Not these clothes.”

Happy turned in his seat, raising an eyebrow. “So, you want to go _shopping?” _he asked dubiously. “I thought you had a call.”

“I _do_ have a call. I have a call approximately—” Tony glanced at his phone. “—fifteen minutes ago.”

There was a long silence.

_“So,” _Tony continued, staring meaningfully at Happy. “I need clothes—y’know, unless you think it’s the day I finally convince Johnson to invest in the Stark casual fashion line.” He spread his arms wide to better display the raincoat and flannel. “What do you think, Hap? Is Paris ready for it?”

Happy sighed deeply. He turned back around, beginning to undo his tie, which he then threw over his shoulder into Tony’s smirking face. “Not _one _comment,” he warned, shrugging off his suit jacket. “I swear to God, Tony…”

“Which one?” asked Tony as he wriggled free of the raincoat. “Because if it’s Loki, I’m pretty sure—”

Happy’s dress shirt struck him square in the face.

“That was fast. Didn’t pop any buttons, did you?”

The driver’s side door was slammed shut, and Tony chuckled as he slipped off his pyjama shirt. When he stepped out from the car, he was dangling the raincoat from one hooked finger. “Hey, you wanna cover up those muscles, Hogan? You’re making me jealous.”

Happy crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Emotional damages are billable through Pepper’s office,” he replied with a smirk, “but that’s_ assuming_ she pities you.”

Grinning, Tony fastened the last of his buttons and started in on knotting the tie. “Oh, I’m not above begging.”

“Good,” said Happy, “because if you lose Johnson, and Pep hears you had him on _hold_ for twenty minutes…”

Tony raised his hands as if to surrender. “I’m going!” He walked backwards toward the elevator. “Look at me go!”

* * *

It was after the day’s business was through, when Tony found himself alone among his lab equipment and half-assembled projects, that he began to think about Peter—about what had happened earlier at the high school, and what he had heard, had turned his back on, had played off like it was _nothing, _because—

He took a steadying breath, loosening his grip on the screwdriver he’d been strangling. How long had he been thinking in circles? What had he even accomplished in the last few hours? It was probably well past dinner now, and he had barely even touched the lunch he’d brought down with him after the video call had ended.

“Hey, F.R.I., what time is it?” he asked, standing up to stretch.

_“The current local time is 12:41 AM, boss.”_

Tony stumbled in surprise, catching himself on the edge of his work table. _“Jesus, _when did it get past midnight?”

_“Approximately 41 minutes and 37 seconds ago.”_

With a deadpan look at the ceiling, Tony muttered, “Whatever. Lock it down in here.” He had just started for the elevator when the lights suddenly went out, leaving him in total darkness. _“F.R.I.D.A.Y._—”

One of the desk lamps near to him flickered back on.

Tony huffed. “Be a dear and pull up the admin logs for your neural programming,” he demanded. “Filter out any changes under my name. I want to see everything else from the last 48 hours.”

_“Understood, boss man.”_

Raising an eyebrow, Tony carefully picked his way around a piece of disassembled machinery to reach the elevator. The doors opened ahead of him, and he stepped inside with his phone in hand. Tapping a button to bring up the hologram screen, he squinted at what he saw.

The admin logs had just come up, and he’d immediately noticed his own name, in spite of his filtering request. “F.R.I, I thought I said...” He trailed off, frowning as he zoomed into a portion of the log’s text:

_USERNAME: t-ping (admin)_  
_ FULL NAME: Tony Parker_  
_ EVENT: Behavioural mod._  
_ TARGET: Basal ganglia_  
_ TRIGGER: timed release, now active_  
_ DESCRIPTION: t-ping (admin): #forscience_

Tony smirked. “Kids these days,” he murmured, taking a screenshot of the log. With a quick tap, he pulled up his contacts, tapped Peter’s name, and attached the screenshot as an attachment to a new message: _‘Hey, when can you swing by the Tower? I just wanna talk.’  
_

Only seconds later, a response came in the form of several emojis ranging from teary laughter to horror-struck to what Tony could only assume was a giggling monkey.

He rolled his eyes fondly as he followed up:

_You, 12:45 AM: ‘I don’t speak emoji, kid.’_

_ Underoos _ _, 12:45 AM: ‘:oldman-emoji: :ambulance-emoji:’_

_ Underoos _ _, 12:46 AM: ‘J/K haha :grin-emoji:_

_You, 12:46 AM: ‘:baby-emoji: Why are you still awake?’_

_ Underoos _ _, 12:47 AM: ‘Gotta study!! BIO test tmrw’_

Tony arched an eyebrow, disbelieving. He’d known Peter long enough by now to know that their respective ideas of “studying” could be _very _different; and sure enough, when he gestured to open a second screen, he wasn’t surprised to see that Karen was active and the kid’s heart rate was elevated. He wasn’t injured, but he definitely wasn’t at his desk.

_You, 12:48 AM: ‘Looks like you’re studying for gym’_

_(Underoos is typing…)_

_You, 12:49 AM: ‘Got a novel excuse huh? Can’t wait’_

_(Underoos is typing…)_

The typing indicator went idle for a few seconds, and then Peter’s brief response appeared on screen:

_ Underoos _ _, 12:50 AM: ‘Thx for today Mr Stark’_

Tony stared at the words, his fingers hovering indecisively above the keyboard as he wrestled with what to reply—whether to address what happened earlier or to point out that Peter was just trying to avoid a lecture. He didn’t have long to think on it, because another message appeared in scant seconds:

_ Underoos _ _, 12:50 AM: ‘:pizza-emoji: :drooling-emoji:’_

“Gonna be the death of me,” Tony murmured to no one, leaning his head back against the cool metal of the elevator and smiling wryly up at his reflection in the ceiling. There were so few who subjected him to emotions like this—a kind of storm inside where the joy entangled with pain. He didn’t know what to do with himself when it all crashed down over his head. Maybe there was nothing to do but _feel it._

He took a breath and looked down at his phone again, noticing that Peter had attached an image—a meme of a pineapple-shaped pizza that read, _‘Where is your God now?’_

Laughing aloud at that, Tony responded simply:

_You, 12:52 AM: ‘Go the fox to sleep :fox-emoji:’ _

_ Underoos _ _, 12:53 AM: ‘:thinking-emoji: :thinking-emoji:’_

Tony rolled his eyes. It was his first thought to point out that it was almost 1 AM on a school night. He hit backspace on those words as another thought occurred to him: _’If you can’t beat them…’_

_You, 12:53 AM: ‘Then perish’_

It wasn’t long before the screen filled with emojis—a flood of teary-eyed laughter with just one heart emoji stuck in at the end, like it could plausibly have been an accident.

_ Underoos _ _, 12:54 AM: ‘good night Mr Stark :grin:’_

_You, 12:54 AM: ‘Good night, Pete - be safe.’_

_ Underoos _ _, 12:55 AM: ‘:spider-emoji: :man-emoji: :flex-emoji:’_

Tony didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how to articulate that he wasn’t worried about Spider-man, exactly. He was worried about Peter Parker—the kid who wore more masks than maybe even he realized. Tony, of course, had made one of those masks to protect him, but there were others that Peter had made to protect _himself _where Tony couldn’t.

Hardest to confront was the smile that was a mask of its own. The smile that stood like a sentry, guarding secrets and weaknesses that Peter would not trust to anyone, including Tony.

Who was he to criticize or resent that when he was so much the same? Who was he to ask for trust when he struggled to give it?

Tony blinked, suddenly realizing that the elevator had stopped moving almost ten minutes ago. He needed only to glance up into the camera for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to open the doors.

With a nod of thanks, he stepped out onto the lower level of the Penthouse. The lights were little more than a glow as he turned right into the quiet kitchen, tapping at his phone display as he navigated by memory. He had a few texts from Pepper and Rhodey that had gone unanswered.

_‘Love you,’ _he typed out to Pepper in his final message, using his free hand to pull the fridge door open. He blinked back spots as the bright white light washed over him.

There was nothing in particular that he wanted from the fridge. After scanning its contents a few times without so much as reaching for anything, he shut the door and opened the freezer. Again, he found himself staring aimlessly at the options presented to him, and he began to wonder why he had come into the kitchen at all.

If he thought on it, he _might _be hungry. The problem was that the possibility of hunger existed somewhere on a scale between too-nauseous-to-eat and nauseous-from-_not_-eating.

He frowned at the ice build-up inside the freezer, half-thinking that he should do something about that and half-content to simply stare at it like part of an art display.

The longer he stood there, the fuzzier his mind felt. He thought that might be the _not-eating_, though it was just as likely the waves of cold, foggy air rolling out of the freezer. Worth noting, too—for whatever diagnosis it might support—that he’d just read “fish fillet” as _“flash_ fillet,” and he had no idea what to do with that.

Another few seconds passed, and it appeared his body was making decisions with or without him, because he noticed his arm reaching for the tub of Rainbow Sherbet that was peeking out from behind the frozen fish.

Tony blinked.

_That wasn’t his arm._

_It wasn’t even flesh—it was a glinting weapon._

_Someone was behind him, breathing down his neck._

_(He’d had this nightmare before. He was prepared for this_.)

Tony whirled around, aiming a knee to the groin of the assassin so _audacious _as to take a stab at stealing his ice cream before they—_oh._

“It’s you…”

“Guilty as charged,” said Bucky, regarding Tony with a wary expression. “Your knee alright? I’ve still got the, uh, under-armour, so…” He smirked. “Lucky for me.”

Averting his eyes, Tony nodded tersely. He had reeled in the force of his intended hit just in time to avoid fracturing his knee cap. “What d’you want, Barnes?”

“Well, _Stark,_ I’d settle for ice cream and a warmer welcome,” said Bucky playfully, spreading his hands out in a shrug. His expression changed as he realized the sincerity of Tony’s sullen demeanour.

“C’mon, you really didn’t notice me?” Bucky tilted his head, frowning. “I was sitting there—” He gestured to the dimly lit island, where a mug was set in front of one of the bar stools. “Hell, you walked right past me.”

Tony stared at him, then at the mug he was pointing at. “You were sitting there,” he repeated drily, his eyes shifting back to Bucky, “in _my _kitchen. At midnight.” His eyes narrowed. “Why is that? Out of coffee?”

“Nah, just like the quiet up here. I don’t usually run into anyone.”

“Back up, back up,” Tony interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at Bucky’s nose. “What do you mean _usually? _You do this often?”

To his surprise, Bucky just chuckled.

“Sorry,” he replied. “I thought Pepper would have told you.” Moving around Tony, he casually swiped the Rainbow Sherbet from the open freezer, and shut the door behind him. “She invited me, set up clearance with…” He trailed off, grabbed a spoon and wiggled it around thoughtfully. “Hey, ceiling robot, what’s your name again?”

The speakers crackled faintly and a recording was played back: _“I am Groot.”_

Bucky looked up with such genuine confusion that Tony couldn’t help thinking that he resembled a puzzled hellhound. If it was all an act to lighten his mood, well… Tony would never admit it out loud, but it _might_ be working on him.

“Forgive her. She’s not herself today.” Tony smirked as he turned to prepare a mug of coffee. “Turns out, when you’re talking to a teenager, you don’t say things like ‘get in her head’ if what you really meant was ‘study her programming, _admire _her programming, do not _change _her programming.’”

Chuckling, Bucky resumed his seat at the bar stool and dug his spoon into the carton of sherbet. “So, Pete’s up to no good, huh?”

Tony’s smirk fell and he went visibly tense. “Not when it counts.”

With a thoughtful noise, Bucky licked at his spoon. He said nothing for a while—just studied Tony’s reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. Finally, he seemed to reach a conclusion on something, and he sat a little straighter as he said with resolve, “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” asked Tony, glancing over his shoulder.

“Name, address—whatever you’ve got.”

This time, Tony turned around completely, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. The coffee machine spluttered and steamed behind him, making the air a little hazy in the dim light.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to _kill_ them—whoever it is.”

“Yeah, okay, that doesn’t really help me here,” said Tony, frowning, “because I don’t know what the hell we’re talking about anymore.”

“Whatever’s bothering you,” replied Bucky, digging the spoon into the sherbet carton again. “You seem… stressed.” He kept his tone light, almost nonchalant, yet there was a darkness in his eyes that promised action. With a shrug, he added, “Figured I could kill it.”

Tony stared at him. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., call Steve up here,” he deadpanned. “Tell him I’ve got something that belongs to him and it’s eating my ice cream.” Smirking, Bucky shoved a generous spoonful into his mouth. “Please add that he’s got 60 seconds before I escort it out through the nearest window.”

_“Understood. I’m paging Captain Underpants for you now, sir.”_

Bucky snorted, nearly choking on his ice cream, while Tony buried his face in his hands, muttering, _“God, _Peter, I can’t even be mad.”

The elevator dinged exactly 42 seconds later, and a barefoot Steve came rushing out in a pair of blue plaid boxers, his dinosaur-themed bathrobe billowing open behind him. He stopped short of the kitchen tiles, and pointed his toothbrush at Tony, his expression lost somewhere between menacing and bewildered as he demanded, “Where’s Keeva?!”

Tony gave him a tired look. “Keep your shorts on, Rogers.” He jerked a thumb at Bucky, who was obscuring an amused smile behind one hand. When Steve only glanced between the two in confusion, Tony sighed impatiently and prompted, “Well? Take your _keeva_ and skedaddle.”

Steve ignored him, slowly circling around and scanning the shadows below knee level as Tony watched with increasing mystification.

“He’s not here for me,” said Bucky, licking a drop of ice cream off his top lip. His eyes glinted with mischief when Tony looked at him, frowning.

_“Bucky,” _Steve hissed in warning, causing Tony’s frown to deepen.

With an eye roll, Bucky code switched to Russian, but kept his voice low: _“What, you don’t think he’s onto us after the entrance you just made?”_

_“I don’t know what to think,” _Steve replied in Russian, visibly exasperated. _“I heard the message, and I just thought…” _He trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. _“God, the kid’s gonna be so upset.”_

_“Hey, listen to me.”_ Bucky gestured for him to step closer, and he did. _“We talked about this. We always knew it’d come out eventually, right?”_

With a small smile at the soothing touch of Bucky’s hand on his forearm, Steve replied, _“I know, Buck, but… we promised him—”_

_“Not to tell, yeah. We also promised we’d keep her safe.”  
_

Steve opened his mouth to respond when a loud slurping noise drew both their attention back to Tony. He was peering at them overtop the rim of his mug—the stare made significantly less intimidating by his flushed cheeks and watery eyes. Evidently, despite his best effort to appear unbothered, he had just been painfully scalded by the drink.

Snorting at the sight, Bucky murmured in Russian, _“On second thought, I think it’s safer if we just lie to him…” _He ignored the admonishing side-glance from Steve, and added wryly in English, “Look at him, Stevie. He’s already so flustered, and he doesn’t even know what it means.”

“Fra-deh!” Tony snapped, his voice running thickly off his blistered tongue. “What’sa keeva?”

There was a pause, and then F.R.I.D.A.Y. responded simply, _“Request denied.”_

At that, Tony set his mug down hard and shot an accusing glare at the ceiling. “Ex-_cous _me?” He inhaled sharply, stalking over to the fridge to swipe a bottle of mineral water. When he had chugged down half of it, he spoke again more clearly: “I’ll ask _again_—who or what is a goddamn keeva?”

_“I’m sorry, boss. That information has been classified.”_

Tony’s grip on the bottle tightened, causing the plastic to warp and crinkle. “Well, _un_-classify it,” he said through gritted teeth, casting a suspicious glance at Bucky as he leaned in to whisper something to Steve.

After a long pause, F.R.I.D.A.Y. stated flatly: _“Peter Parker has not authorized declassification, sir.”_

Tony spit out the water he’d been sipping. He began to cough as he tried in vain to choke out an incoherent reply.

_“This is getting painful to watch,” _Bucky remarked in Russian, sounding bemused. _“You should say something.”_

Steve shoved gently at his shoulder. _“Why me?”_

_“You’re the captain."  
_

_“I’m off-duty.”_

_“I don’t think—”_

“Hey, excuse me,” Tony interrupted, his voice a little raspy. He leaned across the island, glowering at them. “Yeah, hi—if you two old men are done gossiping about me in my own kitchen?” His voice lilted in question, inviting a response.

Bucky elbowed Steve, who sighed deeply as he met Tony’s expectant, burning gaze. “We have a cat,” he admitted, surprising even Bucky with his frankness. “Her name is… Keeva.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @Delusional_Duck and @chrissyglikesbooks from the comments! Always appreciated. Bless. And of course, thank you to everyone for the kudos! Just passed 100 with the last chapter, so that's awesome. I'm really glad y'all are enjoying this story. It's been a pleasure to write, and I'm looking forward to getting even deeper into it.


	8. If I'm Being Honest, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Tony, Steve, and Bucky continue their conversation. Keeva's backstory, and her significance to Peter, leads to some surprisingly vulnerable revelations. As the night presses on, Tony begins to come around to the idea that maybe, just maybe, it's okay to admit <strike>as indirectly as possible</strike> that he _might_ <strike>in the future</strike> need a little help with Peter's high school troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter contains a brief Italian phrase (translation in end notes). Disclaimer: I don't speak Italian.
> 
> 2\. Apparently (per the comics) Tony can speak Russian? But for this story's purposes, just fyi: he doesn't.
> 
> 3\. I have also discovered that Steve is multilingual and can speak Italian, which remains a fact in this story.
> 
> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings_: Minor swearing, stretches of heavy emotional dialogue/reactions (angst angst bby), and largely non-explicit implications of animal abuse (the details are _extremely_ vague except for a couple blood mentions, and this warning only extends to the first 1/3 of the chapter).

“You have a _cat,” _repeated Tony. “Here? In the Tower?”

Steve hesitated to confirm it until he felt Bucky’s hand find his own in the shadow of the island. As their fingers laced together, he nodded.

_“Huh,”_ said Tony, his expression unreadable.

“We were going to tell you,” ventured Steve, a look of conviction in his eyes that was off-set by a guilty half-smile. The unspoken “but” hung heavily in the air until Bucky seized on it: “But we made a promise to someone.”

Tony was looking between them, studying their faces. To their surprise, he laughed at Bucky’s words. “Someone, huh?” He shook his head. “No, no, don’t bullshit me. I already know, I just…” His lips quirked into an odd, cheerless smile as he half-turned from them, breaking eye contact. “I need to hear it.”

Steve and Bucky exchanged meaningful glances.

“Look, this is all—it’s _completely _on us,” Steve replied carefully. “If you’re upset with anyone, it should be—”

“I’m not upset.” Tony’s voice was firm. He turned to face them again, his strange smile having mostly faded but for its quality of sadness. “I know you’re protecting Peter.”

The room was suddenly very still and very quiet.

Tony reacted as though the air had thinned, inhaling sharply and then breathing out a strained chuckle. “Did he tell you… what happened?”

“A little,” said Bucky, pushing the sherbet carton aside. His whole demeanour was now quiet and serious. “We only saw the aftermath.”

Steve nodded. “He saved her, Tony. It was reckless without the suit—we told him that—but if… if he’d walked away—” He felt Bucky’s hand squeeze tighter, giving comfort. “She would have died there in the streets.”

There was a lump in Tony’s throat. “That’s all he said?”

“Well, we know there was a fight,” Bucky said slowly, not sure what to make of the emotion in Tony’s voice. “Pete said he ran off with Keeva. Tried the night clinics, but uh, they said no shelter would take her with all the… complications.” He frowned, idly flexing his metal fingers.

“I think it was about 2 AM, he got us involved,” said Steve. “We woke up to see him stuck outside our window sixty floors up in his _pyjamas. _Kid was banging the glass so hard, we thought it was Banner.” He let out an exasperated chuckle at the memory, and Bucky bowed his head to hide a grin. “When we got him in, of course the first thing we noticed was the two black eyes had a black cat to match.”

Bucky snorted. “I think our grey hairs caught up with us that night.”

Smiling, Steve was about to add something when he realized the depth of shadows on Tony’s face. There was a guilt and shame there that he had no way of explaining. Bucky seemed to catch on to it, as well, because he composed himself like a stone, and they both were silent.

It was enough just to wait—to let Tony decide that he was ready to share whatever it was he’d been holding back. His lips parted a few times, like he was about to speak, then changed his mind.

They watched as he paced toward the windows before circling back to the coffee mug he’d set aside earlier. Again, he seemed to hesitate.

“I yelled at him,” Tony said at last, staring down into the dark liquid. “He called me, probably just after midnight. I asked him what the hell he was doing out, and he said—he said he’d been in bed, but he heard something. Had to help, y’know? Typical Pete.”

Steve and Bucky were quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I just wanted to know what could be so important. He was in pyjamas, right? I saw blood, and all I could think was, _‘This reckless idiot’s gotten stabbed more times than he’s failed his driver’s test.’” _Tony paused, swallowing hard. He moved to the sink and tipped the mug, letting the coffee down the drain. “The cat—I didn’t see much. It was dark enough, I just… didn’t think, didn’t even _imagine_ it wasn’t his blood. I snapped at him.”

“Hey, you were just worried. It’s understandable.”

Tony chuckled darkly at that. “Cap, you remember being a kid? I know it’s been a while, and even I forget…” He leaned back against the counter, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “There’s nothing _understandable _about some overgrown prick yelling that how much they care about you is more important than listening to what _you _care about.”

His eyes grew hard with self-loathing. Quickly, he turned his head to look out through the panoramic windows that began near the right-side of the kitchen, leading out to encircle the open concept living room. The beautiful ever-glow of the city outside the Tower was a sight he’d always cherished, yet he regarded it now with a pensive frown.

“That night, you know what I told him? I said he needed to get his priorities straight—that he should think twice before worrying the people who care about him.” He took a steadying breath before continuing: “I said one day he’d grow up and realize that he couldn’t_ always_ be the hero—that there’s some losses we have to accept or even… allow.”

The words hung heavily in the air between them all.

Tony slid down to the floor, resting his back against the lower cupboards. He drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head, running his hands through his hair with a soft, frustrated sigh.

Bucky cast a concerned glance at Steve, who gave a reassuring nod. _‘It’s okay,’ _he mouthed, and Bucky squeezed his hand in acknowledgement. They both carried a sense that Tony was simply wanting to be heard, not yet ready for dialogue, but only Steve had known him long enough to assess that with relative surety.

A whisper broke the silence: “I fucked up,” Tony confessed. “Thought he’d at least push back, y’know? But he just apologized for _bothering _me.” He gripped at a clump of his hair, inhaling sharply. “Next day, I told him I shouldn’t have yelled, still meant what I said and all that. Hell, I tried to make a joke of how his aunt was gonna react to it, and he… had to remind me. They can’t even _have_ pets. I forgot that.”

He looked up with a small, self-deprecating smile as he met Steve and Bucky’s eyes again. “Gotta say, I was worried he’d ask—worried I’d have to tell him no. But he told me someone else stepped up, and I was so goddamn relieved it wasn’t my problem. I said that was _great.” _The edges of his smile took a sharp downturn as his voice broke on the next words: “He, uh, never brought it up again. Why would he?”

Steve took a breath, pulling away from Bucky as he began to come around the kitchen island. “Tony, hey…”

“No, no, don’t you do that, Cap,” said Tony, shaking his head. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _I’m_ the wounded animal here! I’m not. _I’m not._”

“You’re not,” Steve agreed, his voice low. “I’ve seen you bleeding, Tony.” He paused, stooping into a crouch at the edge of the kitchen tiles. “This is different—because you’re beating on yourself, and you want someone to see it, right? You want me to tell you that the kid deserves better.” Tony flinched at that, and Steve breathed out a sigh. “Well, you’re right. He does.”

“I know,” whispered Tony, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“Let me finish, Stark. I need you to hear this.”

Steve waited for Tony to meet his eyes, unperturbed by the flicker of defiance in his gaze. It was more often than not that Tony chafed at any indication Steve was pulling rank on him; but presently, he gave a slight nod of resignation.

“Avenger or not,” Steve began, “I think we _all_ agree the kid’s become part of our family. I know he looks up to you, Tony—maybe more than anyone else—and I know you feel responsible for bringing him into this mess.” He paused, chewing his lip in thought. “Peter, he’s… a _really_ great kid, a good person. We’re happy to have him, but we’re all afraid to break him, aren’t we?”

Tony buried his head in his arms, mumbling something incoherent and gripping tightly at his elbows.

Steve continued: “He deserves better, Tony—from _all _of us. He deserves better than this battlefield we’ve given him as a second home. He deserves better, so much better, than a group of worn-down action figures like us to call his heroes.”

At that, there came a muffled, inarticulate grunt from Tony, and Steve’s lips quirked into a droll half-smile. He lowered his gaze, steepling his fingers in a thoughtful pose.

“Clearly, we’re not the _perfect _family,” Steve admitted a little drily, “but maybe... we could make it work. We could put our broken pieces together to make something solid—reliable.”

Steve glanced at Bucky, who caught the look and nodded encouragingly at him. He had been idly fidgeting with the spoon he’d pulled from the sherbet carton. It was badly warped from having been bent into several odd shapes; nevertheless, Bucky had resolved to straighten the steel out again by carefully massaging it between his metal fingers.

When Steve looked back to Tony, it was to find that his face remained determinedly buried. To an outsider, it might seem petulant; however, to Steve, it was a rare display of genuine vulnerability that evoked a softness in him the longer he observed it.

“Maybe you’re right and we _are _just two gossipy old men,” said Steve, adopting a lighter tone than before. “Still, y’know—Buck and I, sometimes… we feel like we’ve learned more about you from Peter than actually talking with you.”

At that, Tony raised his head, looking exhausted. He said nothing in reply, yet there was a faint spark of light in his eyes that contrasted with the weariness that otherwise defined him.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Steve continued, “it’s not like we mind the kid’s version of Tony Stark. He sounds pretty amazing. I hear he’s got more safety protocols than character flaws, which—god, that’s a lot more than we can say for ourselves.”

Tony choked on a laugh, squeezing his red-rimmed eyes shut against the tears that were threatening to surface. He took a breath to compose himself and said hoarsely, “Cap, for what it’s worth, I—I’m sick to _death _of learning ‘fun facts’ about you and G.I. Barnes. I can, um, probably tell you what you shared for lunch on May 3rd, 1927.”

Steve and Bucky were both chuckling before he’d even finished.

When they were quiet again, Tony leaned his head back against the cupboards and said, “You’re right, you know… about everything.” He glanced sidelong at Steve, who was unabashedly grinning at him. “Don’t quote me on that, Rogers. I’ll deny it.”

Bucky smirked. “He’s got a witness.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I have a witness, too.” He gestured lazily to the ceiling. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., witness me.”

_“You will ride eternal, sir—shiny and chrome.”_

“Hmm,” said Bucky, flexing his metal arm with a pensive expression. “Are we sure she’s talking to _you, _Stark?”

“You’ve got an arm, I’ve got a suit. Don’t get cocky on me.”

Steve chuckled softly as he straightened up. He walked over to Tony, extending a hand to him. As he took it, Tony quipped in a high-pitched voice, “Gee, thanks, mister—you’re pretty strong for a fossil.”

The long-suffering look on Steve’s face had Bucky covering up a laugh while Tony grinned in triumph. He clapped a hand against Steve’s arm, right overtop one of the cartoon-style stegosauruses printed on his bathrobe. “Great statement piece, by the way.”

Pulling back, Steve sniffed and replied, “It was a _gift.”_

Bucky set his elbows on the island, sliding forward into a lazy slouch. “A gift from Peter,” he clarified with a pleasant smile. “I told him Steve would love it—and he does.”

Steve shot him a look that simply caused his smile to widen.

Chuckling, Tony reached into a nearby fruit bowl and plucked an orange. “Don’t sweat it, old man.” He flashed an impish grin at Steve as he began to peel the orange. “You remember our first Secret Santa with Pete?”

“Yeah, the kid got you an iron, wasn’t it?” Steve laughed, moving to take a seat on one of the barstools next to Bucky.

“Sure did,” said Tony, his grin softening into a smile as he remembered Peter’s rambling apology with fond amusement: _‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, I was in Walmart and I don’t know, I just panicked! Clint said it’d be funny and I could buy time, but now I’m out of time and I’m talking to you and I just—do you like cookies? I was going to give you cookies, but oh man, I think I might have stress eaten them on the way here…’_

They blithely exchanged a few more stories until all the heaviness of their earlier conversation had dissipated, and they sunk into a bleary-eyed hush. At some point, Tony had hauled himself up onto the counter. He sat there now with a dazed expression, next to a pile of shredded orange rinds.

Steve yawned, stretching out his arms. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” he joked, laying a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We should head to bed.”

“Wait,” said Tony, and there was something serious in his voice that gave Steve pause. “I wanted to ask a favour…”

Bucky blinked back the creeping sense of fatigue in his bones. “Told you to give me a name,” he murmured. “Wasn’t kidding, y’know.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I need another lawsuit.”

“What, you don’t collect them?” Bucky grinned at him.

“I _prefer_ to file them,” said Tony, his sarcastic edge giving way to a look of genuine contemplation. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” He scratched idly at the stubble of his cheek, muttering to himself like he often did when alone in his lab: “Bet he’d testify against _himself _for an autograph…”

“Ah, so, it’s a him,” Bucky mused, tilting his head with interest as he observed Tony’s sharp glance and the sudden tension in his jaw.

“I was talking to _myself, _Barnes.”

Bucky flashed his teeth. “I heard.”

“Good,” said Tony, squaring his shoulders, “then you know I’m handling it, so just—forget I ever said anything.”

He narrowed his eyes at Bucky’s noncommittal hum.

“Alright, that’s it,” Steve declared, vying for as much authority as he could muster in his bathrobe. “What’s going on? You two are making me nervous.” He looked pointedly between them, one eyebrow arched in question.

Tony began to inspect his nails with a disinterested expression, at which Steve sighed and asked drily, “Is someone going to fill me in or should I start guessing?”

“I’ll take _guessing_ for $10,000,” replied Bucky, folding his arms atop the counter. He dropped his chin to rest on the cool metal of his left wrist, then inclined his head to meet Steve’s vaguely amused stare with a sleepy half-smile.

Tony muttered something in Italian that elicited a snort from Steve. “I can easily translate that for him,” he said to Tony, a hint of reproach in his voice.

_“Sì, capitano—lo so,” _Tony responded airily. “Go ahead.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head as he leaned into Bucky’s side, curling an arm around the small of his back. “He says it must be past your bedtime,” murmured Steve, “since you keep talking nonsense.”

_“Glass houses,” _Bucky remarked in Russian. He got a laugh out of Steve, who purposefully responded in English: “I don’t disagree, Buck.”

Tony, looking out over the city view, pretended to ignore them. It was still plenty dark out—still enough time to rest before a new day began in earnest. Pepper might disagree, but she was too far to try sedating him into a coma, so he’d just pay off his sleep debt with caffeine.

He jolted as something dark sailed across the kitchen to smack him softly in the chest. As the object began to slide down his thigh, his reflexes kicked in and he snagged it for inspection. Frowning, he processed that what had looked like a stray bat flying at him in his peripheral vision was, in fact, only a fingerless black leather glove.

“Barnes, give me _one_ good reason I shouldn’t put this down the, uh—” Tony cut off, trying to remember the word. His sleep-addled brain was failing him. “The…” He gestured uselessly at the sink while clutching at the glove with a strangle-hold.

Trying not to laugh, Steve offered helpfully, “The sink?”

Tony looked offended. “No, I know _that_ word, Capsicle. I’m talking about the—the _what’s-it_—the sink’s teeth—”

“The sink’s teeth?” echoed Steve in a strained voice. He clapped a hand over his mouth, half-turning to obscure his face in Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky was biting his own laughter back. His dark eyes were shining with unshed tears as he tried desperately to avoid looking at Tony’s face. “Sink teeth,” he agreed, his voice breaking on the laugh that escaped him.

Steve and Bucky melted into each other, unable to contain their hysterics, and as much as Tony tried to maintain a straight face, he was failing.

“You’re both uninvited to my next kitchen party.”

It was several minutes later, when they had all regained their breath, that Tony arrived at some agreement with himself. He didn’t speak immediately, but it caught Steve’s attention how he suddenly straightened and nodded sharply at the floor. There was a steely resolve in his dark eyes that affected his tone as he declared, “Alright.”

Steve met his gaze with a questioning look.

_“Alright,”_ Tony repeated more determinedly. “I’m not too sure about this, but…” He took a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “I need to ask something.”

Bucky, with his chin propped on one hand, mumbled tiredly, “About time.” He ignored the soft jab to his ribs, though he grunted in protest when Steve’s warm hand did not resume its place against his side.

Ignoring him, Steve nodded to Tony. “Anything you need.”

“It’s… not for me,” Tony replied, slow and serious, “so that’s why—” He sighed heavily. “I guess I’m not really sure what I’m asking? I’m out of my element here.” Pausing, he began to tap his fingers against the underside of the counter. “Thing is, it’s about Peter…”

“He alright?” asked Bucky, suddenly twice as alert.

Steve frowned in concern. “Did something happen?”

Tony raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Hey, chill,” he ordered, fixing them both with a wary eye. “Don’t make me regret involving you, okay?”

“Tony,” sighed Steve, exchanging a glance with Bucky, “if you’re _suing _someone—”

“No, hey, I didn’t say I was definitely suing,” Tony interrupted. He crossed his arms, mumbling, “Not _yet.”_

Bucky mirrored his body language, leaning back in his seat. “Something happened,” he said decisively, his eyes narrowing in challenge when Tony glanced away. “You’ve been dancing around it all night, Stark.”

“I think I’m experiencing regret,” Tony muttered.

“Hey,” said Steve, looking between them both, “if it’s about Peter, we all want to help, right? Let’s not lose sight of that.” He fixed his attention on Tony, nodding at him. “What can you tell us?”

Tony scratched at his chin. “Not much,” he admitted. “The kid won’t like it if I spill my guts, and anyway, I think I accidentally promised him I wouldn’t.” His lips twitched up into a grim smile, and he shrugged. “Just do me a favour and be there for him, yeah? Don’t make it weird or obvious, and _definitely _keep your mouths shut.” He leaned forward off the counter, taking on a hard edge that obscured his pleading: “Seriously, we never talked about this.”

It was quiet for several long moments.

Steve laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, and in turn, he reached up to grasp at Steve’s fingers. They shared a look that made Tony’s heart ache for Pepper as he thought ahead to their empty bedroom. He shook the feeling off as they turned back to him.

“Sorry, what were we talking about?” Bucky winked, and Tony gave a faint but genuine smile in return.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Honestly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're able, please consider leaving a comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts! And of course, shout out to @Bullwinkle12 for commenting on the last chap! Much appreciated.
> 
> The brief Italian phrase appearing in this chap, _"Sì, capitano—lo so,"_ <strike>probably</strike> translates to "Yes, captain—I know."


	9. Can't Stop the Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: It's a brand new day and we're kicking it off at Peter and May's apartment, where May is in an especially good mood about who-knows-what. Meanwhile, Peter is a sleep-deprived zombie after waking up from a "bad dream" (he won't call it a nightmare, but I will). Side effects of exhaustion may include: unusual fashion choices, deep-dive nostalgia, and dressing for school so slowly that a sloth would be jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy, I'm not dead! I started writing what was _going_ to be this new chapter several weeks ago, and then, y'know, life kicked my ass, as it's prone to do. Right before Halloween, I got news that my aunt was diagnosed with cancer. I took some time to work through the feelings, and when I sat down to start writing this fic again, I thought I'd just write a quick little scene with Aunt May before continuing the draft I'd started.
> 
> WELL, my feelings did things and the "quick little scene" evolved into a completely new 4,000+ words, so... anyway, since I haven't posted in a while, I decided to split off the first half of that to bring ya this chapter. The apartment scenes will continue into the next chapter and _then_ we'll get back to Midtown scenes (starting at the end of the next chapter, which is already 3/4 written).
> 
> This chapter mentions Flash (dream sequence), Tony and Uncle Ben (flashbacks), as well as Karen, who will be featured more heavily in upcoming chapters with a focus on Spider-manning. For more about the upcoming chapters, see the end notes.
> 
> _Chapter-specific trigger warnings:_ PTSD references; depression, anxiety, and panic attacks implied by narration; and angst related to grief/loss (i.e., domestic flashbacks involving Uncle Ben).

Morning light was spilling through the bent and broken blind slats over Peter’s bedroom window. He could hear May humming cheerfully in the kitchen, sounding almost too relaxed for a weekday morning. She usually left the apartment with a sloshing cup of coffee and a harried look in her eye, pausing just long enough to remind Peter to _at least_ eat a banana with his sugary mound of cereal.

Today, the smell of crisping bacon permeated the air, and Peter couldn’t help but rouse at the thought that he might be in time to snatch a few strips before they were burnt to ash. His stomach growled as he rolled out of bed, idly running a hand through his tangled curls. He made a face when his fingers snagged in a knot.

Peter moved slowly toward his dresser, his eyes half-shut. The drawers were brimming with haphazardly stuffed-in clothing. He tugged at a few pieces before settling on a pair of well-worn jeans and a graphic tee.

With a heaviness in his limbs, he went about dressing and applying deodorant, then ran a comb through his hair without any vigour. He could hear May starting down the hall with a skip in her step.

When she paused outside his door, it was a half-second before she rapped lightly to get his attention. “Sweetie, you up yet?”

“Yeah, May, I’m up,” said Peter, his voice still rough from sleep. He cocked his wrist to shoot a web at the doorknob from across the room, then yanked gently until the door creaked open.

May stood there in a cow-patterned apron with _‘Good Moo-rning’_ printed in bold yellow font across the chest. They had been shopping at a thrift store when Peter found it in the racks, plucking it out just to show it to her, thinking it would make her laugh. He hadn’t anticipated that she would laugh about it all the way to the register, where she’d slapped a couple dollars down and bought the thing.

It was May’s superpower that she could inspire fear in god or man (or mutant) even while wearing the tackiest apron imaginable; so, when she raised a critical eyebrow at Peter’s webbing, he quickly cut the strand and offered a sheepish grin. “Um, _moo_-rning?”

May rolled her eyes affectionately, waving a spatula in Peter’s general direction. “Thought we talked about you sleeping with those things.”

“How d’you know I slept with them?” Peter challenged, sparing her a glance as he began to rummage through a pile of clean-enough-to-wear-again laundry. “I just keep ‘em next to the bed.”

May leaned into the doorframe. “Mm’hmm,” she replied, and Peter could tell from the tone of it that she’d noticed the tell-tale redness of his skin around the bands of his web shooters.

But that didn’t seem why she was still staring at him as he slipped into a rumpled grey hoodie. When his head emerged out the top, she was nibbling at a corner of the spatula with an expression something between amusement and genuine concern. He shot her a questioning look, and she smiled at him.

“Baby, you know I try to respect your choices, even when they bite us both in the ass, but_ this…”_ May trailed off, waving the spatula at him in a twirling, wand-like motion. “Is this the new ‘thing’ with you kids, or should I be worried?”

Peter glanced down at his outfit, only to realize that he’d put his jeans on backwards. “Oh—no, yeah, no,” he said quickly, tugging at a fold in the baggy fabric as though he were insecure about the _completely_ intentional fashion choice he’d made. “Uh, this is just—this is a _thing,_ yeah. This is a thing I’m trying.”

“Mm,” May said simply, her eyebrows raising slightly at his act. He pretended not to notice her scrutinizing gaze as he shuffled awkwardly to the floor-length mirror, striking a pose with his hands on his hips.

“I don’t know! What do you think, May? It’s too much, right?”

May hummed thoughtfully, pushing away from the doorframe and coming to stand behind him. “It’s never too much, Peter,” she told him, her warm breath tickling his ear. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and she planted a firm kiss on his temple as their eyes locked in the mirror.

With a quizzical smile, Peter reached up to lay a hand on May’s arm. “Did you get the day off or something? You’re acting kinda sappy for a typical Tuesday.” He grinned at her.

May chuckled, pulling away from him. “Just a shift change,” she replied. “I made breakfast, but you’re on your own for dinner, alright?” Halfway to the door, she turned back and fixed him with a serious look. “If you’re not warm in bed when I get home—”

“I know, I know.” Peter held his hands up in mock surrender. “One million years dungeon. I got it.”

May left with a wink, closing the door behind her.

Peter began to shimmy out of his jeans. He tried to kick his feet out from the pooled fabric, but he only managed to stumble. His head swam as he caught himself against the wall, and he sighed in frustration. “Damn it.”

There was something about nightmares—something _infuriating _about how he could lay in bed for hours and end up feeling more exhausted than if he’d stayed up all night studying or snuck in from patrol just in time to shut his alarm off.

After Peter had faced down the Vulture, the nights had been bad for a while. Like, _really_ bad. He’d kept it to himself until, eventually, he fell asleep with his mask on after a long, tiring patrol.

May had taken graveyard shifts that week, so it was Karen who tried to soothe him as he woke sobbing from a violent night terror. She was sympathetic—for an AI—but it was pointless to beg that she not report the incident to Tony. He’d begged anyways, even knowing that his vitals were erratic enough that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would have been alerted before Peter was even conscious enough to compute his own distress.

And sure enough, Tony had him on the line in minutes.

They had talked for hours that night—the stilted conversation becoming gradually more comfortable as Tony confessed to his personal struggles with PTSD. _“It’s nothing to be ashamed about,”_ Tony had assured him as the stars faded into dawn light. His voice was rarely so soft as it had been then. _“You ever need someone to talk to, you call me, okay? Any time, any place. I’m here for you, kid.”_

It was a nice thought—that someone was there for him, ready to listen—but Peter _really _didn’t want to bother Tony about a “bad dream.” And that’s all it was, right? That’s all it could be, if there was nothing truly… _nightmarish _about it. No crumbling rubble and no ash in his lungs, no sight of loved ones with their faces twisted up in pain and horror, and no choice to be made between a human life and the secret of his identity.

“Stupid,” Peter mumbled to himself as he dragged his jeans to the bed. He sat heavily on the edge of his mattress, where he began to slip his pants back on with sluggish movements. He grimaced as a sense of déjà vu swept over him. His memory of how the dream began was fuzzy, and yet—he had a distinct feeling that it’d started… _a little-too-much-like-this-moment_.

The worst of it, though—that came when he’d arrived at Midtown. He caught Flash’s eye through the crowd, and his brain scrambled to place him there, because somehow he’d managed to forget: Flash was back. _He was back, _and there was something to the look of him—something that made Peter feel like a cat with raised hackles, caught between a fight or flight response. _He was back, he was back, he was back—_

_He was going to tell everyone._

Peter didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He just knew. It was a certainty that dawned on him just seconds before it happened. _Too late to intervene. He was always too late. _He could only watch. He couldn’t actually even _hear_ Flash speaking—because everything else around him was so loud, so demanding of his attention—but anyway, _he knew. _He didn’t have to hear it, he just knew. _Everyone knew._

He could read it on Flash’s lips—everything that had happened that night, and then some. His heart clenched as the whispers traveled into the crowd, confirming what he feared: the truth had been told all wrong, all warped and ugly—_and no one would listen. _No one would listen to Peter. Not after what he did.

Not after what he was _said _to have done.

Well, which was it? _Which was it?_

He felt a panic rise in his chest, clawing its way up his throat until he couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t actually done what they said, but—_they were so insistent, _and maybe, maybe, maybe he had to wonder if _his _truth was wrong, if maybe Flash was back because he deserved to be there more than Peter did, after what had happened, because maybe it really did happen, and if it _did, _then—

_No, no. It wasn’t real._

Peter had woken in the throes of a panic attack, sweat-drenched and shaking. May’s name was half-formed on his lips before he thought to swallow his selfish, juvenile desire to wake her up—and for what?

“Just a stupid dream,” Peter had whispered to himself, trying to fall back asleep. When he_ couldn’t,_ when the feelings persisted, he’d reached for his phone on the nightstand. His eyes had burned in the white light as he searched YouTube for old baseball game coverage. He’d lowered the volume to where it sounded close to white noise even with his sensitive hearing, and then he’d tucked the screen carefully beneath his blankets to dim the light.

The sound of the baseball games took him back to the many nights when Ben would fall asleep in his recliner while watching baseball re-runs. He did that almost religiously whenever May worked the night shift, half-joking that the bed was too cold without her; but there were nights when May had been fast asleep for hours, and Peter would stir in the early hours of morning to the low hum of a baseball game trickling into his bedroom.

Sometimes, as a child, Peter would wander into the living room and tuck himself against Ben’s side like a baby koala. _“Bad dream?” _Ben would murmur, rousing at the feeling of Peter’s fingers digging into his clothes as he clambered up the leg rest. _“Jus’ cold,” _Peter would usually respond, not wanting to talk about the nightmares—the ones about his parents. Ben accepted that, and he’d just wrap an arm around Peter to keep him warm as he whispered in reply, _“Me too, bud.”_

Those nights, Ben seemed to have the most radiant, ethereal quality. It was beautiful to Peter—the way the flickering blue light of their old, boxy television would reflect off Ben like sunrays striking water, refracted by a cold sheen of sweat. His skin felt clammy, but that only reminded Peter of the stingrays from the aquarium’s touch pool. He loved the stingrays, and he loved the peaceful oceanic dreams that would wash over him as he tucked his head beneath Ben’s stubbled chin.

May would tell him later how Peter’s presence had comforted Ben. He tried to believe that, but all he _really_ felt was that it wasn’t enough. How could it be, when he wasn’t even trying to help? He didn’t know. He didn’t know until _after_ Ben’s death how bad the nightmares had been, or how regular. He didn’t know that Ben was restless, always thinking about the things he’d seen, the people he couldn’t save. He didn’t know that Ben had made demons of his guilt and his responsibility to Queens.

(And god, didn’t _that_ sound just so achingly familiar.)

Peter sighed, grabbing a belt off the floor. He made his way back to the mirror, looping the belt around his waist and cinching it tight with a notch he’d made in the old brown leather.

The jeans and belt were once Ben’s things, and it was obvious when Peter wore them. They were just too big, no matter how he adjusted them. He hadn’t grown into the metaphorical shoes he was trying to fill—or at least that’s what it felt like sometimes when he looked in the mirror.

Of course, since Tony had come into his life, there were plenty of other options in his closet. He didn’t _have _to carry the past forward. He chose to, because he didn’t want to forget the stories. He wanted the comfort of looking down in the middle of his day to see the dark green stains from that long ago summer when Ben had volunteered to help re-paint the park benches, and the oil stains from when they couldn’t afford a mechanic to fix up their rusty beater, and the tear-in-the-knee from when lessons on _how-to-ride-a-bike_ turned into _how-to-take-a-fall-and-do-a-terrible-job-of-hiding-it-from-your-long-suffering-but-equally-exasperated-wife_.

Peter smiled wryly at the memory. _“Hell hath no fury,”_ Ben would utter beneath his breath whenever they were bracing for a lecture from May over _“something only you two idiots would have even considered doing!”_

He bit at the inside of his cheek, taking one last glance at his reflection and then another at the clock. Time was ticking so much faster than his mind today, he’d be lucky if he didn’t miss the bus.

Some small part of him wanted that to happen, though.

Maybe just the part of him still caught up in the feeling of that dream.

That nightmare? No, no—_a bad dream._ That’s all.

**Author's Note:**

> **REMINDER: _This fic is on an indefinite hiatus. Right now, I'm not sure if I'll return to it or not, but given that the plot was largely "slice of life," you can still enjoy a good deal of fluff and humour without an ultimate conclusion. At some point, I may try to reframe these chapters as oneshots; however, it's not currently my priority. Sorry about that! I hope you'll choose to enjoy what's here, all the same._**
> 
> **I'm still active on AO3, so if you leave a comment, I'll definitely see it and respond! Just please don't ask me if/when I'm going to update. You can always hit subscribe if you want to get an alert should I ever choose to continue with this. Thanks for reading! <3**


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